


The Road Not Taken

by Stressedspidergirl



Series: That Has Made All the Difference [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bath Sex, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fever, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Good Parent Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Self-Esteem Issues, Soft Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Threesome, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 80,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stressedspidergirl/pseuds/Stressedspidergirl
Summary: What if Geralt had found Ciri with Yen & Dandelion's help not too terribly long after the fall of Aretuza?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: That Has Made All the Difference [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695964
Comments: 185
Kudos: 187





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beta. I appreciate it. And thanks to prodigalra for letting me literally type this piecemeal at her via google hangouts until it turned into something else. And then I got found thanks to a one-shot by an amazing beta who's helping me clean up all the weird things that happen when you shout fic at someone via a messenger app.  
> Fam, it's a hot mess. Or it was. 
> 
> Also, for whatever reason, even though I have line indents and spacing, copy pasting it into rich text somehow deletes all of that so it's just paragraphs without indents. If anyone has a tip for how to fix that without going in and hand tabbing each paragraph, let me know. 'Cause I hate the fact my formatting gets eaten.

Prologue: 

Geralt crouched by the fire, trying to coax it to greater warmth. It was miserably cold. He could hear Dandelion's teeth chattering behind him somewhere, and Yennefer's mincing steps around the camp as she worked to spread out their bedrolls. The Witcher cursed softly as he added more branches to the tiny blaze. They couldn't find dry wood and Yen didn't dare risk spells to draw attention to them. At least not anything as large as heating their campsite. Roach shook out her mane in disgust, jingling her reigns and snorting. Pegasus pressed in closer to her and Yen's horse tried to nip her way in-between them. 

"Fuck," he says succinctly. 

"Fire won't catch?" 

"Too damp." 

"Then we'll go find some dry branches," Dandelion says, fighting the words past his numb lips and chattering teeth. 

"If that keeps up smoking we'll have to put it out."

"I know, Yen." 

"I'll go with him, make sure he doesn't die." 

Geralt grunts in agreement as he turns to pull some food from their packs. The damn fire wouldn't even warm him if he sat on it. 

When Dandelion dumps a pile of wood from numb fingers at his side, he looks up, widening his pupils. The bard is shaking like a leaf in a gale. Even the Witcher is cold, but the sorceress doesn't seem to be suffering at all. Carefully stacking more twigs and branches into the blaze, he hopes it will last at least an hour or so. Pressing food into Dandelion's numb hands he encourages the bard to warm himself by the pitiful blaze. Glancing at Yennefer he sees she has placed their bedrolls side by side. 

"That won't do," he mutters. "The bard will freeze." 

"Then what do you suggest?" 

"Lay them out together, we'll huddle in together, layer the rest of the bedding over us."

"I won't sleep next to him." 

"I didn't ask. Nor do I expect you to." It wouldn't be the first time he'd slept with Dandelion at his back and it wouldn't be the last. They'd ended up in plenty of miserable places together, and it was one way of staying warm. Sometimes the only way. 

Yennefer touches his cheek gently. "Geralt, you're chilled." 

He simply grunts and starts to settle down on the ground. "Dandelion, come over here." 

The bard finishes the piece of hardtack, holds his hands out to the flames a few more seconds and then hastily joins the Witcher, pressing his back against the other man's and curling into a tight ball. 

"Oh let's not pretend anything," Yennefer complains, braiding back her hair and settling against Geralt. She snugs her body into his, allowing him to curl around her. "you'll be warmer if you do the same. Once he warms he'll give off enough heat to make up for the fire." 

Geralt grunts tacit agreement and Dandelion turns on the ground as they work to spread out the blankets over the tops of themselves. He feels the bard press into him, wrapping cold arms around his middle. Rolling his eyes when Dandelion even presses their legs together, he curls himself into the enchantress. The cold is making his knee ache abominably.

He groans suddenly when Yennefer reaches back to massage him, enjoying his response to being so close to her. He squirms slightly, unable to help himself and behind him Dandelion gasps softly, apparently enjoying the movement, too. Oddly unperturbed by the bard, he still pulls closer to Yennefer. 

"Yen." 

"Tell me to stop Geralt, and I will," she tells him, her fingers working the laces of his breeches loose. 

His voice sticks in his throat when he realizes he doesn't particularly want her to. Although he's not sure he wants another man at his back at this moment. He is somewhat surprised Yen is willing to touch him with anyone around. She's always been possessive. Not shy, though. Perhaps she truly doesn't care. She continues to massage him, hand now inside of his pants. He's thankful her hand is warm. Dandelion's hand on his stomach is still freezing. Yen reaches up to push up his shirt and pull the bard's hand under it. Geralt hisses at the cold but momentarily forgets it when a warm hand returns to its work beneath his pants. He feels his hips twitch in response, seeking more than just her hands on him. 

"Patience. We can do so much more," she informs him, turning to face him. Kissing him, she brings her other hand up to draw Dandelion's lower. 

"Yen," he tries to turn her name into a question. Dandelion is hard against him. 

"Geralt," he says softly. He doesn't allow the enchantress to move his hand all the way. Not without permission. 

"It's alright," she tells him in-between kisses. "I'll tolerate him for you," she promises, kissing the spots she knows makes his toes curl. She enjoys the faint moan she elicits. 

"Dandelion," Geralt says softly, not sure what he means by it. "Please." Please go? Please stay?

Dandelion interprets the request as one to touch. To allow Yen to walk him through what the Witcher likes best. 

"Kissing him here," she explains, "is one way to keep his attention." She takes her time to kiss the witcher, hands under his shirt, stroking his chest. She quietly and thoroughly walks the bard through all the best ways to touch and tease the Witcher, who finds himself overwhelmed by their attention. 

When Yen loosens her top, he finds himself pleasantly distracted by the view. The firelight is plenty for him to see by. As he works to please the enchantress, he finds himself grinding back into the bard. Unconcerned when he feels his trousers being pushed down, he doesn't much care which one of them is doing it. He feels Yen pull him close, guiding him to her and he gasps a little, barely hearing as Yennefer continues to instruct Dandelion in the ways of his body. 

"Always be gentle with our Witcher," she counsels the bard, fingers smoothing Geralt's hair as she rocks against him. "The world shows him such little kindness. So you must always do so, especially when making love." She kisses Geralt for a few moments, "Don't bite him, don't pinch at him, or if you must be gentle. He'll always be kind to you in bed. No matter what harsh words you’ve shared." Geralt, she has found, prefers to make love, over having sex. 

Dandelion takes some of her advice, finding a spot to kiss that causes Geralt to shudder between them. 

"Yen," he tries to ask her to move a little more, he's not sure how long he can hold out with both of them working him like this. 

She leans in close to him, kissing his jaw and bringing her lips to his ear. "It's alright to want him, too," she promises. 

Dandelion pushes against him, not hard, there's no urgency or force to it, he won't do anything Geralt doesn't want. But he thinks Yennefer is right. He thinks he might want them both. He might like being warm and safe between them like this. But not if they're going to keep denying him any kind of release. 

"Dandelion," he asks, half assuming Yen will pull away and the other man's hands will be on him again. If she's going to just taunt him, barely moving. She doesn't allow him to pull back, kissing along his throat and nuzzling his chest. 

He feels an uncomfortable pressure, and twists some to try and see what's happening. Dandelion doesn't push, just waits, as Geralt meets his eyes. He tries to find release in the sorceress but she holds his hips steady and moves herself as she pleases. When Dandelion starts to kiss him again fingers seeking places to stroke and tease, he moves back into the bard, allowing himself to relax. 

It doesn't feel quite right at first. Maybe it is unnatural, he thinks until the bard slips in deeper. Something hits just right and his whole body jerks. He tries to move with them but he can barely keep his head to know who to move with. Yennefer kisses him deeply as she begins to move the way he wanted her to all along. 

He rocks with her, and Dandelion finds a rhythm that works with them rather than against. Before Geralt can even recognize what's happening his body jerks, pulsing against Yen's, as she speeds up to find her own release before it's too late. Dandelion finds Geralt's soft moan the final straw and joins the Witcher but moments after. 

After wanting and denying it for so long, he'd never imagined he'd have to share Geralt with Yennefer. Or that it would feel right. He notices Geralt hasn't allowed Yennefer to pull away from him, enjoying her closeness. He startles when her hand finds and grips his, encouraging him to stay close, the Witcher caught between them. 

When Geralt wakes, the sun barely warming the air, his breeches are still half to his knees. Yennefer is asleep with her head on his chest, an arm tucked up between them, fingers curled softly against her cheek. On his other side, Dandelion is asleep, a leg thrown over his thighs, and an arm around his middle. He finds he's warm and comfortable under the blankets, with both of them at his side. He idly strokes Yennefer's hair, realizing his other arm is trapped under Dandelion's shoulders. Half expecting to feel pain in his backside, or crippling shame and embarrassment he feels nothing other than warm and comfortable. And something else he's unsure about, but it's definitely nothing unpleasant. If the Witcher knew better, he'd know he was feeling loved.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, having read up to Tower of Swallows and rejecting some of the canon because it is too sad, please allow this little time hop to Geralt having his daughter back. Also potential spoilers for the book series. I try to allude to it and respect the overall plot line. 
> 
> Also THANK YOU to my beta monochromaa. Seriously. Many thanks. For all the commas. That I don't. Use. (see?) 
> 
> (tormenting your editor is fun, but risky...)  
> But much thanks. I'm in the process of splitting this chapter up, it was way too long, and then there's...38 pages written, and more being worked out as I go back in and edit.

With Ciri finally returned to him, Geralt is unwilling to be separated from her. She rides in front of him on Roach, his arms around her on the reins. They’d been riding hard for weeks, the horses were nearly spent. Geralt is exhausted and saddle sore, he can’t imagine anyone feels any better than he does. His leg aches and it’s all he can do to not clench his jaw so hard he cracks his own teeth. They haven’t bathed in days, and he can smell all of them, and himself and it puts him on edge. For all he knows the Nilfgaardians can track on scent, too. His heart is easier with Ciri at his side, her back to his chest. She had cried when they’d found her, and he had held her for hours, allowing Dandelion and Yennefer to make camp while he comforted his lion cub.

  
They have been covering as many miles as they can each day, knowing they’re being tracked. All that will save them is enough distance Yen can use some magic without it being detected. Geralt has gained some painful injuries that ooze blood after hours of riding, even with poultices and bandaging. To say he feels terrible is an understatement. Dandelion has run out of chatter over the course of several days of misery and bad eating with little sleep. Ciri doesn’t speak much or at all, screaming in her sleep. When she does sleep. Later, Geralt will blame what happened next entirely on all of the aforementioned problems.

  
When they’d found what looked like a nice enough clearing to camp in, he hadn’t noticed any of the signs he should have. He was exhausted and in agony, too relieved that Ciri was safe to expect to run into a leshen. Drawing his sword, he’d been swaying on his feet. The thing had attacked, but he’d been in too close proximity for Yen to use magic. Not to mention it would have sent up a beacon to everyone searching for them with even the barest drop of magical ability. The damned thing was strong, and had raked him time and time again, piercing his armor just as often as he managed to land a blow. Between his leg slowing him down, and days of not enough food or sleep, he’d barely kept his footing. Barely survived long enough to hack the monster down. He’d turned to look at the others. He had to know they were safe. The last thing he'd seen was Ciri with her sword drawn in front of the bard to protect him, Yennefer with both hands raised ready to cast a spell, and then his eyes had rolled up into his head and he’d hit the ground hard.

  
It had taken a second for them to react, Geralt passing out abruptly had shocked them. The minute the reality of the situation had set in the small group had sprung into action.  
They’d dragged him back onto Roach, riding away from the leshen corpse, before finding a place near a stream to stop. Three sets of hands had pulled away his armor and unlaced his clothes, finding a multitude of wounds and bruises, including a potentially fatal puncture in his abdomen that went clear through to his back, leaving blood to run down into his pants.

  
Yennefer hasn’t stopped swearing, and Dandelion is stunned into pained silence as he helps her clean out wounds with their limited supplies and bind them with torn shirts. Ciri helps by boiling water and cleaning the rags as quick as she can. They pack his wounds with herbs and salve, wrapping them tightly before loading him onto his exhausted horse and continuing on. None of them can ride, the animals too exhausted to go on without being lamed. Roach stumbles, jostling her burden more than once as she plods on, head hanging, foam and sweat streaking her sides.

  
“We have to stop for a while, the horses need time to eat and drink and rest,” Dandelion says, more for his own benefit than anyone else’s.

  
“Soon,” Yennefer agrees. “Just a bit further, let’s not waste the light.”

  
“Yennefer, he’s barely breathing,” Ciri says softly. Blood leaks from the corner of Geralt’s mouth, slipping over his chin in bright red streaks, made even more vivid by the paleness of his skin.

  
“Soon, we’ll stop soon, and I’ll see what I can do to stabilize him. He won’t die yet, he’s too strong to go that easy.”

  
Forcibly reminded of her grandmother’s death, Ciri keeps a firm grip on Roach’s reins and puts her other hand on Geralt’s side. Her grandmother had promised fanfare at her death. There hadn't been any. Just blood and screaming. It's hard to believe Yennefer, so many people have lied to her. She can’t lose Geralt, too.  
When they finally stop again, Geralt is almost entirely unresponsive. Yennefer eases him off the horse with Dandelion and Ciri's help and they settle him into a bedroll. Only using small amounts of magic, Yen closes a hole in his lung, but can't empty the blood out without using more. He won't drown in it, but he won't be comfortable for a bit yet. She rebinds some of the scratches in his thigh, glad it went through muscle instead of tendons and arteries. Several cuts look infected, and what should have been a mild scrape is starting to look especially nasty. She cleans it out again, smearing unguent across it before binding it with the last of her spare shift. She and Ciri had shredded most of their underclothes already, and soon she'll have to start ripping up her skirts.

  
"How bad is it?" Ciri asks in a small voice, hand on Geralt's forehead. He's burning up.

  
"He'll pull through. If we're where I think, we're close to a village with a powerful healer. He just needs to make it another day and she'll put him to rights. Don't worry, Ciri, our White Wolf is strong."

  
Dandelion works to set up camp, allowing the two women to keep watch over the helpless Witcher. The fire soon crackles merrily against the cold, and he can see the hollows of Geralt's cheeks in the flickering light. The witcher's face looks like a skull. Not hungry, he pulls out his lute and strums softly. Half singing half humming whatever lullabies come to mind, he does it more to soothe himself and occupy his mind and hands than for anyone else. It surprises him when Ciri settles near him by the fire, listening intently to his music. He picks some songs he knows are specifically Cintran, and feels gratified when her lips mouth the words.

  
Yennefer lays out the other bedrolls on either side of Geralt, and curls up at his side. Hopefully he'll stay warm enough to make it through the night. She'll try and get some water into him in the morning. For now he isn't dehydrated that she can tell, just grievously injured and ill. She falls asleep stroking his hair, wishing he was aware enough to enjoy it. She knows how much he likes being touched, and it hurts her that he doesn't even know it's happening. Having been inside his head enough, she knows how rarely anyone touches him with kindness. How much he craves those gentle touches and kind words, and how uncommon it is to have time for them.

  
Ciri sits bolt upright in the dark, the fire burned down to embers. She slotted herself in-between the sorceress and witcher, head on Geralt's chest to keep track of his heart. The slow steady thumping had lulled her to sleep. Now, she looks around, her heart racing, she'd heard something awful and it had woken her up. Dandelion is awake, too, but far less alert. Then she hears it again. An almost whimpering sound. Yennefer sits up, and reaches over to touch Geralt's cheek.  
"He's dreaming," she tells Ciri gently.

  
"That…" her mouth dries and she can't finish the sentence. That noise can't be Geralt. He'd never make a sound like that. She looks down at his face, wishing she could see in the dark. All the same she can tell his brow is furrowed, and that he's in distress. When he shifts around in the bedroll, distressed sounds pulling themselves from his throat, Dandelion sits up all the way.

  
"Oh Geralt," he mumbles softly, stroking the man's sweat soaked hair back from his face. He leans in closer to sing softly, the one song he knows Geralt remembers from his youth. One he's caught the witcher humming, half asleep, several times. "We love you, stay with us," he says softly.

  
Ciri settles back against Geralt, eyes burning with helpless tears. She can't get him back just to lose him again. He's promised they would be together now. That he would take care of her, no more separations. No more mistakes. Unable to stop the tears that roll over the bridge of her nose and into his shirt, she can stop the sobs. Dandelion's singing seems to soothe him, at least, and she feels some of the tension in him fade away.

  
Yennefer settles against her, holding them both. She can't sleep, either, but she can try and soothe the lion cub. One of them should be rested and ready to fight. Just in case. Not that she believes all this fuss is necessary. Geralt will be fine. A few scrapes and a fall won't keep him down. Not for long.

  
They pass the night miserably, convinced Geralt's condition will deteriorate through the night. They break camp silently, Yennefer coaxing the unconscious Witcher to drink water before they load him back onto Roach. The horse behaves uncommonly well, whickering softly and doing her best to sniff and lip at her rider while they secure him to her back. Afraid to ride too hard and injure Geralt worse, they mostly walk the horses, avoiding the rough gait of a trot.  
"I see smoke."

  
"It looks like chimneys," Yen says, glancing over at Dandelion. Many a town has been burned to rubble thanks to the war. This one appears to still be standing. Last Yennefer had heard, Triss had been headed this way. Hopefully the enchantress was in town, or soon to be. Half the world knows Yennefer of Vengerberg is Geralt of Rivia's lover, and that Geralt's child surprise is Cirilla of Cintra. Anyone who doesn't believe the girl dead knows that finding either the enchantress or the Witcher will take them to Cirilla. It's not as if she can cast whatever magic she wants, or trust just anyone to heal him. But Triss loves Ciri, too. She would never betray them.

  
Yennefer ties up her hair, bundling it up at the nape of her neck before pulling up her hood. Ciri does the same, hiding her face and distinctive hair coloring. Dandelion, however, has no reason to hide. Unless he's been screwing the wrong men's wives. But he hasn't been to this town before so odds are small he'll be in any trouble. They can more or less use him to distract away from themselves as he hunts down a good inn and searches for word of reliable healers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors like comments. <3  
> I'm not sure which fic I mentioned it, but one of "my" babies went missing, and we got them back, not quite safe, not quite sound, but if you were one of the people who messaged me, thanks. <3


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks always to my beta. Couldn't do this without you. :} I don't know how you can stand to re-read this enough times to edit it, I'm sorry. <3 Please don't stop.

Yennefer and Ciri settle Geralt in the bed at the inn, calling up for wash water. Ciri heads down to the bathing rooms to scrub up while Yen cleans Geralt again. He's sweating and still bleeding. When Ciri gets back, skin pink from scrubbing, they work together to rinse out his hair and clean the dirt from it. Ciri hisses when she finds welts and cuts deep in his scalp. With only a water basin and some rags they get dirt out of the wounds and as much dried blood as they can. "He needs a real bath."

"I know Ciri, but he wouldn't survive one right now. Better not to move him anymore and just keep him comfortable. Go down and get some soup brought up, between the two of us we can get some broth into him." 

The girl leaves, watching as Yennefer dumps the filthy water out the window. She comes back with a pitcher of water, and a bowl of soup on a tray. She holds Geralt's head while Yennefer slowly spoons broth into his mouth, stroking his throat gently to encourage him to swallow rather than choke. She gets most of it in him before he won't take any more. 

"I'm going to bathe. I'll be back. Check the door before you let any strangers in." She waits until the girl nods, and then hurries down the steps. She cleans herself quickly and braids her hair up and back before dressing and going to the kitchens. She gets food for herself and Ciri, along with a promise of a fresh basin of water. They'll need it for Geralt later, she's sure. 

When she walks back in the witcher is mumbling in his sleep. Ciri is crying silent tears again, stroking his hair with one hand and holding one of his in the other. 

"He's asking for Visenna, but I don't know her. I can't bring him someone I don't know." 

"His mother. She wouldn't come even if you did know her. She gave him up. It's not as if she'd come running at the call to tend to him. If she'd wanted to nurse him through illness and suffering she would have kept him." 

"Yennefer," Ciri says sadly, almost reproachfully. "I would drag her here in chains if it would please him." 

"I know, I know you would. It wouldn't help him. She won't give him what he wants. I'm not sure she can. Or that he knows what it is he needs from her." 

"Do you?" 

"It's not possible for anyone to give it," Yen says bitterly. "And I'm not sure he'd truly want it if he had it." 

Frustrated with the non-answer she knows not to push. Geralt is entitled to his secrets, she supposes. And perhaps regardless, it isn't Yennefer's place to dole them out. 

"Yennefer," he croaks. 

"I'm here, Geralt, I'm here," she tells him, cupping his cheek. She knows he can't hear her, he's delirious with fever. All the same she can't ignore him. Kissing his chapped lips softly, she presses her forehead to his. "We're here, and Ciri is safe. You'll be alright soon. And most offended we've been taking such meticulous care of you. You don't like being vulnerable." He groans in his sleep, twisting. "I know it hurts, I'm sorry. I wish I could make it stop." He's doing far worse than she'd anticipated. But the fact he's still alive is testament enough to the mutations he'd undergone. If he can survive this long, no reason he won't recover in full soon enough. 

Dandelion knocks once before poking his head into the room. Glad everyone is dressed, he ushers the healer into the room. When she drops her hood, Yennefer and Ciri both stand up and hug her tightly before releasing her to see to her patient. Triss attempts to shoo them out, but no one moves. She then gives orders about what she needs, and they obey. Her materials are laid out quickly as she undoes filthy bandages. Clicking her tongue in dismay, she's displeased to learn so many of the wounds are infected. She works first on cleaning them out, ignoring the grunts of pain from the man under her hands. The bard wrings his hands in a corner, trying to stay out of the way. 

"You'll need new sheets," she comments idly, having flushed the grit from one of the worst gashes. When she removes the compress from his stomach she winces. "This will take magic," she warns Yennefer. "People know I'm here, it should be safe. But in case I'm wrong, as soon as he's able to sit a horse you'll have to move on." 

Yennefer nods, eyes serious. She watches Geralt's face pinch in pain as Triss works medicinal herbs into the wound, working a spell that stops the bleeding and flushes the infection. While she's glad Triss is there, and able to heal, she still hates watching the other woman touch Geralt. 

"Why not do that for all of them?" Ciri demands. 

"Energy," both women answer simply. 

"If I heal all of him like this I would risk myself. If I handle the worst of it, I can restore my energy and spend less on the smaller wounds as they heal some on their own." 

Triss keeps working for a bit, but the flurry of activity around the injured witcher has died down some. The bard attempts to approach and is warded off by a violet eyed glare. 

"Dandelion, go bathe. You smell foul." 

The bard makes a rude gesture but leaves to do as she says. She's not wrong. He'd rather be clean. Not to mention there’s nothing he can do here to help. Geralt isn’t moving around enough to need any kind of restraining, and with his preternatural strength it’s not as if the humble bard could do much to stop him anyway. If nothing else, he can clean up and earn them some coin. Something to pay for all the herbs and bandaging they're using. 

"He's quite the mess," Triss comments carefully, as she binds another wound on the witcher's arm. His muscles twitch and spasm as she continues to reclean his injuries with her own decoctions. She's a better healer than Yennefer. It's what she’s chosen to focus on. Yennefer has incredible power and intelligence. She’s just chosen to put it towards other things. Looking over the witcher’s battered body, she sighs. "He's been hard used."

Yennefer doesn't comment. It's true. He groans again, jerking his head. It feels like hours, before Triss has gone through and recleaned and bandaged even half the wounds. It can’t have been more than half an hour, though. While Yennefer can be cold as it suits her, seeing Geralt like this pains her. Ciri hovers at the edges of the bed, fetching and carrying when asked, and also making a general nuisance of herself when there’s nothing for her to do. 

Dandelion comes back in just in time to see Geralt open his eyes. His hair is still damp and curling around his collar. He immediately goes over to the bed, gratified to see Geralt look at him for a half second and manage a weak smile. 

"Yennefer?" He asks hoarsely.

"I'm here, darling," she reassures him. She isn't sure why he's asking for her, but she's there. They're all there. He's not alone. 

Ciri leans in, desperate to see him. He looks at her, or tries, eyes not quite focused. She can see how much pain he’s in, the way his mouth pinches, and his eyes don’t quite open, and her heart aches. He did that for them. Put himself in front of that monster without any help, after days of hard riding and various injuries from protecting her, and now he’s half dead. Now, she might lose him, too. 

"Drink this," Yennefer tells him gently. It's something Triss has given her. It'll ease the pain and put him back to sleep. "It'll help," she promises. He drinks it obediently, eyes trusting until they close again. He needs rest while they get him cleaned up and stitched up. They can’t risk him moving around, and none of them want to see him in pain. He deserves to rest easy until he’s better. 

It's a few days before he opens his eyes again. Yennefer leans over him, and his vision is filled with violet. His eyes narrow slightly as he raises a hand to touch her hair, but it's all missing. He loves her hair, the soft curls, the way it flows across her sharp features like midnight...and now she’s gone and gotten rid of all of it. What happened that she had to cut all her hair off? 

She chuckles as she catches his thought and pulls the leather tie from her hair to let it cascade messily around her face. His hand is rough and shaky as he tangles it in her curls. She knows he likes her eyes, hair, and tits most about her, physically at least, and probably in that order. She doesn't wince when his callouses snag her hair, she just helps hold his hand to her cheek. He makes a few disjointed attempts to stroke her hair, managing to tangle up his fingers in her curls before just resting his hand by her face. 

"Fever's not as bad I see. Triss said when it eased up you'd wake up. And here you are." Dandelion says, leaning over to look. He lightly strokes the witcher’s face, brushing a few strands of fever-damp hair back from Geralt’s forehead. "You still look a bit of a fright, though, I must say."

"Dandelion, shut up," Yennefer suggests. 

Geralt manages to make some sound, but he's not sure what it is. His throat is miserably dry. When he tries to move his other arm Ciri whines in protest. She's fallen asleep at his side, having kept vigil with him all night. Triss had said he could wake up any time now. She'd been determined he wouldn't wake up without someone waiting for him. He shouldn’t wake up alone. Especially since he’s sick. Whenever she’d woken up alone after being sick, she’d been terrified. Her nightmares had no one to chase them away, and the fever had made it even harder to tell fact from fiction. She couldn’t heal all of Geralt’s wounds, she couldn’t stop him from getting hurt in the first place, but she could make sure someone was with him when he finally woke. 

"Stay still," Yennefer suggests gently. "I'll get you some water." She puts her book aside, and starts to shift. 

"I've got it, don't get up. He loves being near you both, no point in moving him," Dandelion says in an aggrieved long-suffering kind of way. As if he hadn’t just recently learned Geralt likes being near him, too. He sets his lute down and pours a cup of water from the pitcher before bringing it over to the enchantress. He’d been on a chair by the bed as it was, so he had less walking to do to get the water. He can see the witcher trying to watch all three of them at once, clearly muddled. “I expect you're going to feel odd for a bit. The fever is still quite strong, eh?” he asks, not that he expects and answer. Geralt’s eyes are glassy and unfocused. "Don't worry, you've got at least three people at all times nursing you 'round the clock. It's fair amazing you haven't hopped up to your feet and announced yourself fit to hunt monsters again." Dandelion can't stop babbling. It’s just so good to finally see him awake. And to talk to him. Or at him, the bard supposes. Since it’s not as if the witcher is up to a conversation. "Don't worry yourself about anything, we'll take good care of you. And we have been. Plus it's been a real bear not saying anything about you being up here. Did you know my music has made it out even to these remote parts? Too bad we can't get them to toss you some coins, eh? They love that. Even if they are just a ha' penny or two. Good news is we won't be short of coin. I can make enough even without you." 

She helps Geralt raise his head enough to sip the water slowly. When Geralt gives her a helpless look she grimaces at him in turn. She knows full well he can't keep up with the chattering bard.

"Don't rush or you'll be sick," she chides, pulling the cup away for a moment, withholding it from him. "We've been getting broth into you daily, you won't die if you drink this slowly." She brings the cup back to his mouth, pleased when he slows down some. 

He's too out of it to glare or sass her. Which worries her more than she'd like to admit. 

"Ciri has been quite capable of taking care of you. When Triss is out healing other people. There's no reason to think we've been depriving you of anything. In fact it's been a chore getting enough food and water into you to shore up your strength. As if we'd let you suffer in any way if we could prevent it. Although you've much tried to prevent it. You're quite a pain in the ass when you want to be. Even unconscious-"

"Dandelion shut the fuck up," Yennefer snaps. "No one can focus and tolerate your prattle all at once. Let him be." She gently strokes Geralt's cheek. "Poor thing, he's torturing you, isn't he?"

"The nerve of you, I'll have you know-" 

"Last warning before I use magic," Yen threatens in a sickly sweet tone. 

When the cup is empty she passes it back to the bard, who quietly refills it. Another cup down and Geralt looks slightly more like himself. Thinner, paler, and far too tired, but more like himself. "You've been unconscious for over a week, now," she tells him, unsurprised by the widening of his eyes. It had been a few days to the village. And then they'd been here for several while Triss kept him alive. When his fever had finally truly broken the first time they'd been relieved. It’s come back, as fevers do, but if he’s waking now it’s clearly much improved. Yennefer thinks it will fade naturally, now. 

Triss had had her work cut out for her though, cleaning and changing bandages, fighting to get medicines in him, and to cure the weeping cuts on his body. The sorceress had finally been able to make potions that had purged the infection from his wounds, literally. She had been nervous to risk using it, in case he couldn’t survive the toll it would take, but finally the risk of infection had outweighed the risk of the potion. Ghastly as the result was, it had been effective and he had begun to heal in earnest after that. There had been quite a bit of swearing in the room as the potion had run its course, not to mention many hands hurriedly mopping up what had felt like unending amounts of pus and infection from his skin. 

Geralt blinks a few times, trying to take in the information he’s been out for so long. He raises an eyebrow, trying to formulate a question, but he isn’t sure what he even wants to ask. Mayhaps the right question is ‘why’ but perhaps it should be ‘what happened,’ but if he’s being honest he really isn’t sure. He looks at Dandelion, trusting him to be verbose and explain everything. Perhaps now that he's got the absolutely useless chatter out of his system he'll say something with sense. 

"Oh? Am I to be allowed to speak now? Well, then! Here's what all you've missed, now that I'm allowed to tell you?" He pauses to look at the sorceress who waves a hand at him to continue. "Right then. Ciri has been taking care of you quite a bit," Dandelion tells him softly. 

Geralt tries to move to make room for his bard but can't figure out how. Luckily the bard interprets the expression and eases himself into the bed in-between the witcher's legs. That way he isn't bothering either woman. Or being forced to lean over Geralt awkwardly from the side of the bed. "She's kept you clean and helped feed you. I don't tell you so you'll be grateful, or upset. I just feel you'd like to know she loves you very much." He lightly strokes Geralt’s thigh, since it’s all he can easily reach. “She’s been by your side, day and night,” he smiles fondly. “As much as you wanted to believe that the worst thing you could imagine was anyone needing you, I think by now you should have learned that was wrong.” 

It takes the befuddled witcher a few moments to understand what Dandelion is telling him. From when they had recently become friends, and he had told the bard the worst thing he could imagine was someone needing him, and that he wanted no one. Dandelion had knelt down and looked at him and said ‘and yet here we are.’ And there they had been, tied together ever since. The bard had refused to let it go, and while he hadn't brought it up in ages, until now, he'd gotten quite sick of hearing about it. 

Yennefer feels his embarrassment. She knows that while his mutations prevent him from being able to blush, if he could he'd be bright red. "You've been delirious with fever or completely comatose in turns. Mopping sweat off you and keeping your wounds clean wasn't something we could avoid doing. She's wanted to learn quite a bit of healing and so she has. She's made the last batches of poultices we've used. Triss has said once you're conscious and can't hurt yourself on accident we should stop bandaging you up so much. Let the wounds get some air." She smiles when he visibly perks at the sound of the other enchantress's name. "She'll be in to check on you shortly," she promises. 

When Geralt had accidentally shared with her, one night, one of his greatest fantasies, it had involved Triss, too. It still makes her smile, at times. His fondest hope would be living with her, as she continued her work as an enchantress on a smaller scale. Their own modest home, Ciri happily married with children, and Triss and Dandelion visiting as they pleased. It had been a good dream, one that had deeply shamed Geralt at the time. He’d expected her to mock him, she thinks, or simply hated himself for wanting something like that at all. She hadn’t asked, just had told him it was a nice dream, but it could never be. She very much loves the idea of Geralt dandling Ciri’s children on his knee, no longer living a life of hardship and pain day in and day out. 

If it was possible, she thinks she might have tolerated Triss for him. Provided the visits were friendly, and not carnal. Not after what had happened between them before, behind her back. At least Geralt had been innocent of any knowledge it hadn’t been alright, so she doesn’t feel angry with him over it. Just the other woman. It’s been difficult being around her, seeing the familiarity with which she had touched the witcher while treating him. Yennefer had found herself leaving the room several times, eyes flashing and jaw clenched, rather than pick a fight over something stupid. He needed medical care and healing, and he was receiving the best. 

He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear it. Licking his lips a few times as he tries to gather his thoughts, he looks at Yennefer, eyes full of pain. "Was...was my…" he croaks, trying to get his voice working. 

"No," Yennefer says softly. "No. She wasn't here. You called out for her. I know you said she healed you once before. But no, Geralt. She was never here. I would not have let her go, if she had been." She strokes his hair again, watching his eyelids flutter. He won’t stay awake much longer, she doesn’t think. At least he’s lucid. 

Dandelion looks at him for a bit, wondering what Geralt was asking about. He’s aware of Visenna, but he hadn’t understood the question, not being a mind-reader like the sorceress. 

Geralt finally truly looks at him, brow furrowed in concern. "You haven't cuckolded half the town have you?" He rasps. "I can't protect you." 

With a snort, the bard shakes his head. "You stay silent for ages and then the first time you speak to me, it's an insult. You should well know the only bed I've been sharing of late is yours. And only when you're conscious." Putting a dramatic hand on his chest, “I can’t believe you would accuse me of such a thing.” 

"Didn't know you could wait that long before straying," the Witcher points out. 

"I'm almost sorry you woke up if all you're going to do is have a laugh at my expense," Dandelion tells him haughtily before leaning over to kiss Geralt's forehead, then his lips. While his lips are by Geralt’s, he whispers softly, “Do you truly think I would turn from you so soon? After waiting all this time?” He kisses Geralt’s cheek again, touching their noses before pulling back. 

"I should like to sit up." 

"Wait until Triss is back," Yennefer tells him. "You took a nasty gut wound. If she feels you can sit we'll get you settled." If she's being honest she hadn't expected him to stay awake this long. He's clearly feeling better. She touches his forehead again, he still feels warm and his eyes don’t seem quite right. But perhaps the fever is breaking again. 

"I need to sit up," he whispers, an odd edge to his voice. He swallows hard. 

Ciri rouses to the sound of the distress. "You're awake?" She asks stupidly, rubbing at her eyes. She'd been far too tired to wake up to Dandelion's incessant chatter. She sits up, mindful of hurting him. "Praise to Melitele, I wasn't sure how long you'd keep us waiting." Her voice trembles. "Don't leave me again." 

"I'll try very hard not to," he assures her, swallowing again. "Ciri tell them to help me sit up." 

The girl looks at him, her emerald eyes narrow for a moment before she gets up to get something off the table and hurriedly returns. She opens a small pot, and dips a fingertip in before lightly smearing something across his lip. While jerking his head back, he automatically licks his lip, his pupils dilating before shrinking. Yennefer looks over at her. 

"That's very strong," she's almost reproachful. 

"He was going to vomit and tear all his stitches." 

"The hell is it?" Dandelion asks. “And how could you possibly tell?” His nose wrinkles a little, the smell is strong. Painfully so. Not that he recognizes anything other than sharpness at the moment. "Oh that's bound to make my eyes water. That's so terribly strong. Perhaps it would be pleasant if it wasn't so strong! Oh, Ciri what is it?" 

"Ginger," Geralt tells him. That's the base ingredient at least. And all he can taste. Anything else in it is absolutely overwhelmed by the root. He makes a slight face. "That is strong," he tells Ciri as she screws the lid back on, and gets up to put the little pot back on the table with all the other things she and Triss have been using. 

“You can tell because he was swallowing too much, Triss told me,” Ciri explains primly. 

Geralt feels raw all over, his heightened senses screaming. He shifts some, sore from being trapped in a bed for too long. It’s almost as if he can feel the bandages pressing into his skin, the shifting of the poorly made sheets scraping over his body, it’s horrible. 

“Oh, just ginger. That makes it alright. What the hell was done to it?” Dandelion asks, and predictably is ignored. 

Yennefer looks at him, "we can give you something to help you fall back asleep," she offers gently. She doesn’t typically try and rummage about in his head, he’s indicated a preference against it, but times like these she can’t quite help it. Not that he seems displeased. 

"No," he grunts, he’s been asleep for days. At least the nausea is gone. 

Triss sweeps into the room, a loaded tray in her hands. There's plates of food, and a fresh water pitcher on it. Ciri jumps up to help her immediately. The witcher girl takes a steaming mug and spoon, knowing it's intended for their patient. Dandelion helps her unload the rest, finding it more useful to feed himself and let the others battle Geralt into taking his meal. 

Ciri settles next to Geralt on the bed again, easing an extra pillow under his head, and carefully testing the heat of the broth against her lips before offering him a spoonful. 

He looks at her reproachfully. "Ciri, I can feed myself." 

"Hold up your hand, then," she tells him calmly, emerald eyes holding his own. He finds he can't, not very well, and that he can't stop the shaking in his limb. "You need food, and you'll shake less." 

When she offers him the spoon a second time he allows her to feed him, shame eating him alive all the same. Triss looks at him as they eat. 

"She's been handling most of your day to day care, Geralt. Worrying about you nonstop, I might add. There's no reason to be ashamed." 

Geralt grimaces in response, wishing the woman would stay out of his head. It’s none of her business how he’s feeling. It’s not as if she’s Yennefer, who is vaguely entitled by virtue of being his bedmate and travel companion. And as far as he’s concerned, the mother to his witcher girl. Thankfully the bard doesn’t read minds, too, he doesn’t think he could stand that. He glances over at Dandelion, unsurprised to see the man has half forgotten to eat and is busily writing at the desk again. The oddest things spark the man to write new music. Melitele willing, it will not be a song about the leshen. 

"When I told Triss I wanted to learn how to heal, she told me I had to do all the parts, not just mixing up herbs. She's been taking me around as her apprentice, making me do all the unpleasant work. Changing soiled bandages, lancing boils, removing warts...it's a relief to come back and care for you," she tells him earnestly. It doesn't do much to ease his shame, but he supposes being fed is less disgusting than having a boil lanced or a wart removed. 

“I don’t make you only do the unpleasant work. You have to start somewhere to learn,” Triss fusses at her. 

“You show me once, and then expect me to do it every time after.” 

“How else will you learn?” 

The noise of their arguing fades into the background when Yennefer settles closer to him and he looks at her. “Yen,” he croaks, this is all too horrible. He hates all of this. Why not just take him back to Nenneke? She’d heal him up. It would be less humiliating to have a priestess or two handling his care than Ciri. 

Yennefer smiles at him, trying to reassure him. "It keeps her busy," she glances at the girl. "She can't worry as much about how to help you or if you'd wake up if she's the one caring for you." 

The mug emptied, Ciri slips off the bed again to settle it on the tray and eat her own lunch. By the time she's done eating, the others have finished, too. She clears up the dishes and takes the tray back down. 

"Let's see how you're healing up then," Triss tells him brightly. "Sooner you're mostly mended the sooner we get you up and moving." 

He notices the bickering finally stopped, and it’s probably just because Ciri left the room. Hopefully they won’t resume it when she gets back. Geralt glances at Yennefer, noticing the odd looks she keeps giving her friend. Then he remembers how irritated she was Triss had slept with him. Not that she'd been mad at him. Or that he'd been sleeping with Yennefer at all during that time. A little uncomfortable, he forgets their little disagreement when the blankets are pulled away. His skin instantly breaks out in gooseflesh. It’s cooler in the room than he’d realized. 

His body is a mass of yellow and green bruising and white bandaging. Triss carefully begins undoing the bandages, beaming in pleasure. "No infection here. And the wounds are mostly closed or properly scabbed. We won't need to be wrapping most of these at all. Or adding any more ointments. Time to let you heal the rest of the way on your own. I'm afraid it'll itch some, though." 

Mostly just ashamed at being looked over like livestock, and how helpless he feels, he starts in shock when Yen takes his hand and squeezes it gently. 

"Am I well enough to be allowed to sit now?" He asks irritably. 

Triss ignores his tone and slips an arm under his shoulders, helping ease him up. It hurts, and he almost regrets asking. There's multiple wounds held together with neat, even stitches, he looks at them dispassionately.

"Ciri's work," Triss tells him. "Steady hands on that one. All that witcher training did her some good. She hardly flinches at anything." 

He grunts once to show he’s heard her. All the same, if that’s meant to be reassuring, it isn’t. Geralt would rather Ciri had grown up with her mother and father and grandparents than survive her kingdom’s destruction. He has loved training her, and watching her strength and skill grow exponentially, but he would undo all of it if it meant she had no reason to have steady hands or horrific nightmares.

The bard looks up when he hears Geralt, and turns to look at him. The witcher is the picture of absolute misery. He tears himself away from his writing, packing up his papers and pens before going over to the bed. Dandelion helps him get more comfortable, sliding in on his other side after Triss moves away to continue to check on his injuries in more detail. Geralt leans into the bard, already half wishing he could lay back down. He’s so ashamed of his helplessness he turns his face into the bard’s neck rather than face the room any longer. If he pretends it’s not happening, it will still happen, but at least he can ignore it. He’s gotten good at that, over the years. 

"That damn monster, when you hacked off a piece of it's horn, it used it to stab you. Triss says your rib broke off into your lung, too. And all these other scrapes were festering something awful. I haven't seen that much pus in all my life. Why didn't you tell us you were wounded before?" He runs his fingertips through the witcher’s hair all the same, gentle hands at odds with his sharp tone. He knows well how much Geralt enjoys his hair being stroked. 

"They were just scratches," Geralt complains. "Not worth a fuss." 

"But they made you weak enough you barely survived that leshen. And that you barely made it here to a healer. It's a wonder the sepsis didn't kill you," Dandelion chides him before kissing the witcher's temple and tucking his head under his chin, holding him close. There’s something off about Geralt’s behavior, going compliant when he knows he can’t win, but the bard can’t quite put his finger on it. He can’t solve all the mysteries in the world, but he can offer his lover comfort. “We’re glad to have you here, with us, at all. You have to stop hiding when you’re hurt. It does no one any good.” 

There are several responses to that, and Geralt discards them all, settling instead on “Hmm.” It’s simpler than arguing. And no one much cares about what he has to say anyway. It doesn’t much matter to him in the moment, provided the bard will keep stroking his hair. He can put up with a lot if it means they’ll continue to treat him mostly well. 

“Well I hope you’ve learned your lesson from all this,” Dandelion tells him pompously. “Next time you’re injured, even a little bit, you tell us. We can take a moment for you to care for your wounds, and then we can go on again. No more disasters like this one.” 

“It’s fine, bard,” Geralt says, hoping that will put a stop to the nagging. He grunts softly when Dandelion kisses his forehead, acknowledging the affection. Tipping his chin up just a bit, he hopes -yes- the bard leans in and kisses him gently on the lips. It’s not as if it matters if Triss or Yennefer watch. For one, Yennefer’s seen it before and Triss has seen all of Geralt more than once. He’s got nothing left to hide no matter how much he might still like to have some secrets of his own. Not that Dandelion has to be some kind of secret. People already think he’s a deviant mutant monster, what’s adding kissing another man to the list of reasons why? 

Geralt hisses in pain, jerking back from the bard when Triss pokes at some stitches in his calf. He shoots her an ugly look, and then glances at the door seconds before Ciri opens it. He reaches for the sheet to cover himself but it's too far away. He can’t lean forward, and he can’t manage to get his legs to move to bring the blankets up, either. He makes a small distressed sound that Dandelion gently shushes. “She’s already seen you naked, no point in fussing now. Besides it’s nothing anyone should be ashamed of,” he says gently. He does tug one of the spare blankets over to cover Geralt’s lap anyway. They can move it if they need to. 

Dandelion frowns when Geralt pushes his face back against his neck and gives Yennefer a worried look. She shakes her head, indicating that she either doesn’t know or won’t talk to him about it. He chooses to offer comfort, again, gently stroking white hair. 

"How's that gash in his leg?" She asks Triss, all business. She lightly looks over his arm, before running fingertips over his ribs. Ciri is determined to prove she can treat Geralt like any other patient, she can keep her emotions away when she has to. 

"I'd say the stitches should come out soon. What do you think about the ones in his arm?" 

Geralt hates that they're talking about him like he's not there. He also hates that he's this vulnerable and exposed. It's not that nudity particularly bothers him so much as he feels he should have a say in it. A blanket in his lap isn’t the same as having his clothes, or his dignity. 

"Maybe tomorrow? His rib's knit back together, it seems." 

Triss looks over his arm, too, nodding in agreement. Ciri pulls the covers back up, giving him a small smile. "You're looking so much better," she tells him earnestly. He glares slightly in response. She kisses him on the forehead between the eyes, smiling at the annoyed grunt she receives for all her troubles. 

“I have other patients to attend, I’ll be back,” Triss informs them, grabbing up her bag and leaving the room. 

"Where're my clothes?" 

"In your bags," Yennefer tells him. “No point in putting them back on you until you’re able to care for yourself. At least now we don’t need to be changing bandages hourly. Or even daily. You’re finally on the mend.” She shakes her hair out a little, inspecting a few split ends. "We washed them. Repaired your armor, too. Then packed them up for until you need them again. Looks like another day or so," she gives him a lascivious smile. "I will say it's been disappointing to have you naked so long but incapacitated. We'll soon remedy that, I hope." 

"Gross," Ciri mutters. Yen laughs, and Dandelion lightly nuzzles Geralt's cheek in sympathy. 

“Perhaps his smallclothes, at the least?” Dandelion suggests. “He’s up and around enough that should be safe.” 

Geralt manages to press a kiss on his cheek, glad at least the bard isn’t currently picking on him. In fact, he’s defending him a bit. He feels oddly fragile and extremely tired. He’s had very little success moving his own limbs, and correctly assumes it’s because his body is exhausted from healing itself. He feels like he’s taken a beating, every part of him aches. In a way, he has, but not recently, and he shouldn’t be feeling this bad so much later. He lets himself rest against Dandelion, grateful for the fact the bard hasn’t stopped stroking his hair. 

“If you can help him dress, then it’s your problem,” Yennefer agrees. 

Dandelion splutters when a few moments later the bed creaks and a wad of fabric hits him in the face. “Well then out with both of you! Go on, shoo!” 

“Isn’t it a bit late?” Yennefer asks dryly. 

“It’s never too late,” he protests. “Go on, off with both of you. Go find someone else to torment.” 

“Geralt,” Ciri says quietly. “Would you like us to leave you alone with him?” she tries to keep a straight face, knowing the bard will throw a fit. 

“Oh come now, Ciri,” Yennefer says in a long suffering tone, rubbing at her temples. “I don’t need to hear this diatribe. We’ll go. I fancy a peek in the apothecary a few streets over. Try not to damage Geralt while we’re gone?” 

Once they’re gone, Dandelion puts his hands on his hips and gives Geralt a look. “Well, I suppose after all those times you’ve manhandled me I get to return the favor. Well don’t look at me like that, I won’t be enjoying it. I much enjoy the other kind of handling we’ve done. This isn’t the same. But if it’ll make you feel a bit better, then it’s worth it. You do look a bit tuckered out, though, we can do this later.” 

“Bard, stop dithering,” Geralt rasps. 

“Alright, alright.” It takes a bit of effort on both their parts, but they manage to get Geralt into his underclothes, which makes him feel better. They even manage not to pull any of the stitches or cause him any more harm. It involves a lot of sitting, and swearing, and perhaps less dignity gained than hoped, but no one’s around to see but them. 

“I should like a shirt,” Geralt tries his luck. 

“We both know they’ll just have to take it off again. And then we’ll both have to put up with a lecture. I feel as if we’ve had enough of that, don’t you?” 

Geralt looks away and then meets Dandelion’s eyes for a few moments. 

“You look run down, my love,” Dandelion tells him sadly. He looks up at a noise, and misses the frisson of pleasure that runs over Geralt at the end of his sentence. He’d put up with much worse to be called that again. 

“I am run down, Dandelion,” he says hoarsely, wishing he could say it back. It’s easier with Yennefer, they both know how hard love is. And how rare, but someone like Dandelion who falls in love as easy as breathing…it’s harder to say it to him when it won’t mean anything. Or at least, not as much. He’s heard it so many times. It’s stupid, it should be the opposite. But Geralt can’t bear the idea he’d say it to Dandelion and have it not mean much. 

“Just a bit, and just for now,” he promises. “You’ll be up on your feet soon.” He pulls the water pitcher over closer to them so he won’t need to get up for a bit. “We’ll take care of you, and you’ll be right as rain. No matter how much you fuss and throw a fit.” He kisses Geralt gently, “you aren’t on your own anymore. No more of this lone wolf thing for you. You’re a proper wolf now, in a pack. As you were meant to be.” 

They kiss for a little before Geralt falls asleep, exhausted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading, I live for comments. hope you guys enjoyed the update.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my beta. :} You make me feel like my writing is good enough to post where other people might see it. (Even though very few do.)

The next morning comes before he’s ready for it. He’s unsurprised to wake up sandwiched in-between Yennefer and Dandelion. They’re talking about the town and he can’t bring himself to pay attention to any of it, he has other concerns. He shifts a bit, stretching out just a little. The muscles ache and protest, and he shifts some, trying to get comfortable. They’re used to him moving about a little, it’s more odd for him to be extremely still than to shift some. If he can’t get up and walk soon he’s going to lose his mind. Not to mention they should be on their way already, leaving him behind. He could catch up when he’s healed. There’s no point in putting Ciri at risk like this. 

It eats at him, that they're going through all this trouble. He doesn't deserve any of it. If witchers had feelings his would be in shambles, absolutely overwhelmed by all the care and attention he's been receiving. His fault for losing his witchers’ elixirs and going into battles exhausted and half healed. No one should have sympathy for him. 

"Stop it," Yennefer tells him, lightly twisting his good ear. "None of that." She doesn't truly try to hurt him, and has no intention of actually twisting it regardless of his response. He’s in enough pain she sees no reason to add to it, not even to prove a point. "You're just tired. We'll get you settled back down," she promises. She lightly kisses his temple. 

Dandelion gives her a questioning look and she shakes her head, they'll talk later. Geralt protests as they settle him back down onto the pillow. He's been asleep for days, he doesn't need more rest. Unfortunately for his pride, his treacherous body is worn out and he falls asleep within minutes, the bard stroking his hair gently. 

"He feels we're being too kind to him. That this whole mess is entirely his fault and he deserves to suffer from it," she explains when Dandelion shoots her a questioning look. "Too many people in too many towns making him hate himself for us to overcome it so easily." 

They let him sleep for several hours before waking him for more food. Another round of broth does nothing to improve his mood. He points out he could eat something real, and Dandelion reminds him he almost threw up water the day before. Geralt bares his teeth and Yennefer suggests he return to sleep until his mood improves. He half snarls at her, before remembering she could easily work magic to send him into sleep until she's ready for him to wake. The helpless feeling and general weakness sets him on edge. They do allow him to stand up to use the chamber pot, Dandelion snippily forcing the womenfolk from the room. The witcher manages to convince the bard to let him wander a few more steps around the bed, his legs shaking like those of a newborn foal's. 

"Back into bed with you," Dandelion tells him, helping Geralt resettle. He fluffs the poorly made pillow, and shakes out the blankets before tucking the witcher in. He does it more for his own amusement than any real need. Geralt growls at him in irritation but falls asleep within seconds all the same. "Poor thing," he says softly. "You'll be up on your feet and back to normal soon enough, now that the worst is passed." 

He settles down alongside Geralt, glad the fever hasn’t resurfaced. Geralt sleeps for several hours before Triss is waking him to have him take more potions. He grunts in disgust and displeasure, ignoring Ciri’s chiding. He’s restless, and irritable, and about ready to snap if they don’t stop treating him like a piece of meat. He sees Yen watching him, violet eyes considering and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t much feel like being drugged insensible until he can be back on his feet. When he notices Triss watching him, too, he feels distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Come on Ciri, I’ve heard of a man whose oxen dragged a plough over his leg, mangled his foot. We’re going to see if we can save it, and if not I’ll teach you to amputate safely.” 

The witcher girl gathers up her things, winding her hair into a neat knot at the nape of her neck before sweeping her cloak around her shoulders. She looks at Geralt, and rushes over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek before trailing after her teacher. 

Dandelion kisses him gently, once it’s just the three of them alone. “I can’t much help you heal faster, but I can keep your mind busy,” the bard offers with a raised eyebrow and a wink. Geralt rolls his eyes a bit, but hums low in his throat when Dandelion kisses him again. His mouth and face are mostly unbruised, so it does him no harm to be kissed. It’s just his head that aches, and there doesn’t seem to be a specific spot at the cause of it, it just hurts all over all the time. He lets himself enjoy the way the bard kisses him, doing his best to keep up. 

Yennefer settles in next to him, stroking lightly down his chest. She’s seen where the injuries are, and is well able to avoid them. She knows he feels somewhat raw all over, and part of it is how restless he is, but part of it is just that he’s still badly hurt. Rather than tease him through the blankets, and risk causing him pain, she pushes them off him gently, letting her fingertips trail over bare skin. “Do you mind a little assistance?” she asks Dandelion. 

The bard gives her a wolfish grin, and kisses Geralt on the bridge of the nose. “Not at all, the more the merrier, eh Geralt?” he asks. The witcher just tips his chin up in response, seeking more kisses from them. They oblige him, and he makes another contented sound low in his throat. Dandelion’s clever fingers move down Geralt’s body gently, and he hums in pleasure when he discovers the witcher is enjoying their affections quite a bit. “Someone’s feeling better,” he smiles. “Look at that, Geralt, you’ve finally managed to heal up some. Replace some of that blood you lost,” he adds cheerfully. It’s good that the witcher is feeling better. Not too much better, or he feels like Geralt would be participating quite a bit more, but overall he’s clearly pleased with the situation. He allows his mouth to trace the same path down Geralt’s body his fingers had just moments before. 

“Don’t push him too much,” Yennefer cautions, “He’ll tear his stitches,” she carefully takes his hand and holds it. He still feels raw, she knows. But he is most definitely enjoying himself in spite of it. 

Geralt snorts at her, managing to squeeze her hand and also get one hand tangled in the bard’s hair. He can’t do much other than hold on, he feels so weak. Not to mention the bard is doing something with his tongue that is making it impossible to think or move anyway. 

Yennefer watches for a few minutes, interested, before resuming kissing Geralt. She knows that’s what he wants from her, and she’s willing to give it. If she’s being honest, she’s glad the bard has found a way to be distracting, because she isn’t up for that much work, she’s exhausted from helping tend the witcher ‘round the clock. 

“Easy,” she cautions the bard, “He won’t tell you but his senses are heightened, and he’s feeling raw.” She knows Geralt could talk for himself, if he truly wanted to. He’s lucid enough right now, but he also doesn’t feel like he should speak up for himself. He’s grateful to be getting what he has, and has no intention of saying anything that might make it stop. She kisses the side of his neck, distracting him away from his negative thoughts. 

Dandelion eases and slows, not that he’d been rough in the first place. Geralt’s breathing starts to get ragged and the bard knows he’s on the right track now. It would have worked before, the other way, but softer and slower seems better. He tries a few things, slow and gentle that make the witcher’s breathing hitch and stop and shudder in and out of him. He hums low and deep in his throat, knowing others have enjoyed the vibrations, and apparently the witcher does, too, if the noise he makes is any indication. 

Yennefer would be the first to tell him Geralt’s preferences tend to be more bland. He gets off more on being cared for than he does the act itself. Not that she minds, he’ll do more if she’s so inclined, but if it’s his choice he just wants to enjoy himself with his partner. As the bard works, he keeps his touches soft and slow, mindful to keep his teeth from touching. If Geralt already feels raw, any other discomfort might ruin it for him. It seems to be working well, and Dandelion is glad he can provide some respite from the boredom being confined to bed has brought. 

The sorceress catches most of the witcher’s soft whimpers between her lips, stroking his hair and chest gently. She keeps her body against his, keeping him warm and safe and as comfortable as he can be in spite of his injuries. She reassures him with her body and her voice, as the bard’s clever tongue and fingers drive all thoughts out of his mind. Eventually, he can take no more, and his back arches lightly, muscles tensing and then it’s over. 

The bard sits up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances first at the sorceress, and then at the witcher. Geralt is breathing deeply, eyes closed, his hand limp at his side, no longer tangled in Dandelion’s hair. Yennefer is still holding his other hand, and she smiles a little.

“I’ve never heard that noise before,” she says to both of them. Geralt hums quietly in response, and Dandelion chuckles low in his throat. 

Geralt opens his eyes to look at the bard, smiling a little at the smug expression on the other man’s face. Dandelion had been correct, Geralt now feels far less restless and far more content to lay back in bed. The bard eases himself up, carefully putting his weight on the bed on either side of Geralt so he can lean over him and kiss him gently for a few moments. 

The witcher looks so peaceful. Especially with Yennefer at his side, gently stroking his hair. He shifts slightly, not able to move much yet, but feeling slightly better in general. They still want him. For whatever reason, even though he’s letting them down and putting them at risk, they still want him. They should just take Ciri and leave him behind. But they’re with him, and they’re still choosing him. Dandelion is choosing him, rather than literally anyone else in the town they’re in, if the bard can be believed. 

After he falls asleep again, Dandelion looks up at Yennefer. “He’s a soft touch, our witcher, isn’t he?” 

“He’s had so few, it’s all he wants,” she murmurs, stroking his hair. “I’ve broken his heart enough, if you start, too, I will turn you into a bauble and keep you in a garden,” she cautions him. 

“Perhaps you could stop,” Dandelion points out. 

“I don’t know if we can,” she says, refusing to let him blame her for all of it. “We don’t always want the same things, and when we don’t, we split apart rather than force it.” She idly smooths the blankets over Geralt’s chest. “I don’t know if we work like that, the way people do in your songs,” and the bard can hear the unspoken part of her answer. He can hear that she fears they’re both too broken and too stubborn to truly stay together. “He likes to wander, he hates staying in one place too long. He’d rather be on the road where people don’t know him.” The last thing Geralt wants is to be seen as a monster, and unfortunately that’s how most people see him. She has her own goals and wants, and they don’t always align with his. But perhaps Dandelion is right and they could part more gracefully. For all she thinks the only way they can manage to part is if it’s on bad terms, otherwise they’d stay together and be miserable. 

He eases off the bed and finds a rag and a wash basin, he might as well clean the witcher up a bit. Not that it’ll hide the evidence from Triss. But Ciri, perhaps, doesn’t need to know what happened in her absence. He makes sure the water isn’t icy cold first, and wrings the rag out well before gently wiping Geralt down, smiling some when the witcher shifts in his sleep the slightest bit. “Does he always lift his chin when he wants to be kissed?” 

“Only when he feels like he’ll get the kiss,” Yennefer says quietly, and leans down to oblige her sleeping lover. He hums once in his sleep, and she takes his hand and holds it against her chest, over her heart. It’s not as if Geralt ever seeks out comfort, he never much expects to find it. Although since the three of them had come together that frozen night, he’d been a bit more open, and a bit more vulnerable. She kisses him again, just to do it. 

Finished with his task, Dandelion resettles the blankets and puts away both rag and basin. He grabs up his writing and settles down next to Geralt again, taking his other hand. He works until he’s too tired to carry on, and then tucks his things away before slipping into the bed and going to sleep. Yennefer doesn’t allow herself to sleep until Ciri is back and safe at the inn. The girl crawls between her and Geralt, and they fall asleep. 

The following morning just leads to continual monotony for Geralt. He is allowed to sit up at least, and he’s less shaky and more able to feed himself. But beyond that he’s trapped in bed with not much to do. The books in the room are not things he especially wants to read, and everything is bothering him. The few bandages still holding wounds together seem to hurt, the stitches hurt, the sheets hurt, and when Triss offers him a potion to help him with the pain he takes it without a second thought. Usually, he would have avoided it, knowing it would muddle his head, too, or possibly put him to sleep, but he’d give anything to escape from how raw he feels and how everything hurts. The lights, the sounds, the fabric of the linens above and below him. 

He wakes briefly that day, long enough to relieve himself, eat another meal, and refuse to get under any more blankets before the potion pulls him back under. 

Triss and Yennefer have no answers for what’s distressing him so, and further research gives them nothing. Not much is known about witchers in general. Just that they undergo mutations and most don’t survive. Both women would kill to know more, but that information is mostly gone, and what remains isn’t even known to all. Geralt certainly wouldn’t be of any help, or he would have been by now. Triss and Ciri complete their rounds, Dandelion plays for the masses, and Yennefer reads what she can, staying out of sight. When the day ends, they retire to bed, and prepare themselves for another long, dragging day. 

Geralt is just as miserable as before, eyes squinted against any light, twitching at the sounds in the room, and feeling like everything is scraping him raw. He opts to spend the day drugged senseless again, the only ‘good’ thing happening is that he’s regaining some control over his limbs. He’s managed to find different positions to sleep in so he aches less. 

The next day sees the removal of several sets of stitches, Ciri learning under Triss's watchful eye. Geralt doesn't so much as bat an eye at any of it, having refused any kind of numbing agent. What he doesn't know is the lion cub had dipped her fingertips in it before touching the stitches, so he'd had no choice in the matter. Yennefer and Triss had said he'd been feeling raw lately, everything too strong for his senses. The night before he'd slept on top of the blankets, unable to stand them slipping over his skin. He ached all over from inactivity which further blackened his mood. 

Stitches removed, Ciri carefully cleans her hands again, and then checks over her work. There's hardly any scarring, she hadn't pulled the thread unevenly or damaged the skin. Pleased, she smooths a small amount of salve over the wounds, not wanting infection to set in where the thread had been. His skin twitches and she sighs. They'd gone shopping using some money Dandelion had drummed up playing various taverns, and purchased Geralt some extra clothing. He can barely stand it, and as such can't really leave the room, which in turn makes him even more aggravating to put up with. 

She stands up, done with playing healer and holds out her hands to him. He glares at her, but a quick glance at Triss and then Yennefer tells him he'll find no quarter there. He obediently takes Ciri's hands and eases himself out of the bed. He allows her to walk with him in slow circles around the room. His backside aches from lying on it, and it's a relief to stand. He's still shaky but it's a definite improvement. Not to mention he feels less raw when the only points of touch on his body are the bottoms of his feet and his hands. He still feels vile, but they'd allowed him a roll with his broth. He'd commented that at least he was finally well enough to be treated like a prisoner and not a corpse and had received a pinch for his trouble. 

He glances at the window, desperate to move on from this town. They can't stay much longer and he's recovering far slower than they'd hoped. Every noise makes him startle, the light is always too bright, he hardly wants to eat because then he has to smell the food which burns his nose and makes him nauseous. Taste is too strong. Triss isn't sure what's causing his senses to overwork themselves like that, but she's been trying to see what she can do to stop it. So far the answer is to keep the shutters drawn and to touch him as little as possible. 

When he feels he can't stand any longer he makes as if to turn to the bed, but Ciri keeps her grip on him and drags him just enough off balance he's forced to take another step. He's too despairing to push on his own, and he's not making much progress. She forces him into another two turns around the room, ignoring the change in his breathing. Then, she deposits him in a chair rather than permitting him to go back to bed and sleep for several hours rather than focus on recovery. 

He looks at the table, and sees his swords laid out and both whetstone and cloths laid out to care for the metal. There's even something for the leather grips and the scabbards. Geralt doesn't want to worry about any of it. But he knows his legs are too tired to cross the room again just yet. Not stupid enough to try maintaining the blades' edges with shaking hands, he does go through the other parts of caring for his weapons.

Ciri watches critically before adding his armor to the table, deciding it would do him some good to work longer. He grimaces but works at polishing the leather until he can't hold the cloth anymore. 

With a hiss of pain, he stands up and Ciri is there with her hands out to catch him and help him crawl back into bed. She's convinced this is all taking too long. Even if she's seen far less take far longer to heal on other men, now that she follows Triss on rounds. 

They let him sleep for hours, occupying themselves with their own tasks in the meantime. Determined to fix the problem, Ciri slips from the room for a bit, her comings and goings unremarked by the others. She knows not to leave the inn without saying anything and she's a capable enough fighter to survive until they can get to her, provided she's inside the building. 

When Geralt wakes next, Ciri thrusts an oversized shirt at him. He pulls it on, grimacing at the pain of the cloth over his tortured flesh. The hem reaches half down his thighs, so at least he's somewhat decent. "You don't have to walk me like a dog," he gripes, and she ignores him, holding out stubborn hands. Cirilla had more than inherited her famous grandmother's stubbornness, she had improved upon it. Forcing Geralt just enough off balance he has to step with her or fall down, she helps him down the stairs into the bathing chamber. Each step is painful, and he is terrified she'll slip and kill them both. But her witcher's training keeps her steady, fluid, and constantly moving. 

Dandelion is prevented from following by Triss. "She won't hurt him any. Or if I'm wrong, my magic's nearly full strength and I can handle it."

"You can't magic dead," Dandelion huffs. 

"His skull is far too thick for a tumble down steps to crack it." 

Unsurprised to see she’s taken him into the bathing chamber, he is somewhat amused by the maids expressions when they finish pouring water into the tub. He’s even more amused that they have no idea he’s a witcher. Per their conversation he hears as they exit, they feel he’s Ciri’s ailing grandfather. Poor old man, having to travel at his age. At least his family is caring for him on the road. He’s been ill, probably from travelling while being so old. 

When Ciri catches his eye, she knows he heard, too. “Better that than the truth,” he shrugs. She rolls her eyes in response, but leads him backwards, surefooted as always. Taking his shirt when he pulls it off, she holds out her hands again to help him step into the tub. She folds a towel up small and tight and tucks it under his head so he can lean against the lip of the wood without hurting himself. 

“Yen taught me that,” she says primly. Geralt snorts. 

“A demanding taskmistress.” 

“Always,” Ciri grins. “Not unlike some witchers I’ve come to know.” 

She pulls from her skirts a small pouch and opens it, carefully dripping some oils into the bath water along with a few pinches of herbs. Geralt inhales deeply, pupils doubling in size as he adjusts to the darkened room.

“Am I that far gone?” he asks.

“Hm?” she asks, going over to the soap to take some for him. 

“That’s quite the potent set of healing herbs, Ciri.” 

“You’re not healing as you should, Pa- Geralt.” 

He glances at her oddly, deciding he just hadn’t heard her properly. 

“Duck your head will you?” she asks, “We’ve had a horrid time trying to get all the blood out of your hair.” 

He obeys, managing to stay under long enough to hopefully loosen up some of the mess. He can feel it, when he runs his fingers over his scalp. She comes over, bringing a candle closer so she can see better. 

“Triss gave you some potions, and added things to the wounds we found, forcing all the infection out, it was… disgusting. But we didn’t do anything to your head,” she tells him. Parting his hair as she looks over the injuries, she winces. “I might have to break the scabs on some of these,” she tells him. “Clean them out all over and start afresh.” 

He nods. Then winces when she pulls on one, and he can smell the disease as it breaks free. Her scent changes, clearly displeased with what she finds. “There was still dirt in, I’m sorry,” she tells him. The tugging on his scalp continues, and while it doesn’t quite hurt, he imagines he looks like a rotten melon. He hears her uncork something and then the sharp scent of mint and tea tree fills the air, and his scalp burns a line of fire down the side of his head. He groans, closing his eyes. 

“Hold just a few moments more, than duck your head again,” she tells him. “Wait,” she counsels when he moves to rinse the potion from his wound. “Just a few more seconds,” she puts a hand on his shoulder. “Alright then,” and she releases him. He immediately works to rinse his scalp, eyes burning even though they’re shut tight against the water. Her hands take over, he’s being much too rough. She works some soap into his scalp, trying to make sure he won’t get a secondary infection from any lingering pus or dirt still trapped in his hair. 

When he’s sitting more normally, “I found more, I’m afraid,” she tells him. “There’s something… in this one,” her voice is hesitant and a little disgusted. “I think we couldn’t tell because we thought it was all dried blood, but now I know better.” 

“Cut it out,” he tells her immediately. 

“We’ll see if I need to,” she parts his hair again, shifting her candle so she can see. She checks over the bump, and realizes there’s no scab across the top, but there is one at the end, like a puncture. Gritting her teeth, she pulls loose the scab, nose wrinkling at the smell of unhealthy flesh. He’s right, she’ll have to cut open the skin to get whatever’s in there out. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, freeing a small knife from her pack. She holds it to the flame to make sure it’s clean and then lets it cool a bit before sliding it into the wound and slowly slicing through infected scalp. When she can see enough to grip what’s in, she pulls it free and he hisses in pain. It’s a claw from the leshen, she thinks. He’s hardly bleeding the skin was fairing so poorly. She pours more of the potion into the gash, and he reacts far less than she’d expected. It takes a few moments, and she steels herself to do what Triss has shown her on other injuries with infection. She cuts away the rotten flesh, relieved to see normal skin beneath, not bone. Not that deep then. He bleeds normally once she’s done, and she feels better when he protests the use of the potion a second time. 

“That burns,” he complains. 

“But it’s already helping close up your wounds,” she tells him. Throwing the claw and fouled flesh into the fire, the claw turns the flames colors for a few seconds, and then is gone. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” she hums, pleased. 

“How fouled is the water?” he asks her, watching swirls of blood dance beneath the ripples. He’s mostly asking to make noise. He can smell how dirty it is. The rotten scent is particularly unappealing. 

“Enough we should request a clean tub, I think. It’ll do you good to soak with some of the herbs for a bit, but not if it’s in filth. I’ll get the maids.” 

He grunts in response, fingertips up to his hairline as he probes the edges of the wounds in his scalp. At least she’d only found two worth noting. He finds plenty of sore spots and bruises, but no more lumps or scabs. Shuddering a little, he drops his hand and leans back on the towel she left for him. 

“Wake up,” she tells him softly when she comes back in. He does, instantly, and she breathes a sigh of relief. “Up and out, they’ve already begun heating water to fill the other tub. They need to empty this one, though.” 

“Do we have coin for this?” he asks her hoarsely. 

“Triss saved the inkeeper’s son, and Dandelion is drawing them quite a bit of coin playing for them most nights. The bath water is free. Their thanks for our help.” 

“Hm,” he takes her offered hand and gets unsteadily to his feet. His head aches, but less so than usual. He hadn’t hardly noticed how bad it was, before. “Still bleeding?” he asks, taking in her wince. 

“No, just enough blood still in there to make you quite terrifying what with it mixing with the water down your face.” 

He raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs in response. When the next tub is ready he resigns himself to more potions and herbs that sting his nose and make his eyes water. He rinses his head to get the rest of the blood out of his hair. Ciri pulls a stool over, holding his hand as she sits in silence next to him. He leans back, eyes closed, trying to imagine what all has been going through her head the past few days she’s been tending to him. He has no complaints about her staying close, for all he dislikes they’d let her handle the majority of his care. It should have been left to an adult. Preferably one of the ones who had already seen him naked several times. Not Ciri. For her part, Ciri would happily tell Geralt about all the horrible injuries she'd treated, and other nude people she'd seen at this point. Nudity doesn’t bother her at all. She’d much rather see a naked man than a dismembered corpse. It’s certainly not as if she hadn’t seen naked people before the sacking of Cintra. 

He dozes off, the warm water soothing his sore muscles and aching head. When he wakes up the water is cool, and Ciri is still sitting with him, thumb running over the back of his hand idly. “Time to head back up?” she offers. He nods, and frees his hand before getting up on his own. It’s a little rough getting out of the tub without falling down, but he manages. Dries himself without help, and tugs the shirt on. He notices halfway up the stairs that the rough towel hadn’t bothered him any more than usual, and the shirt feels like a normal shirt, rather than sandpaper. By the time they reach the top of the stairs, the lion cub is smiling. “I think it was those remnants of the leshen stopping you healing properly,” she babbles, clearly pleased with herself. “And the herbal bath, half your bruising faded even more just in that hour or so.” 

When they reach the room again Ciri is overflowing with commentary about how she’d handled cleaning out his scalp, delighted to receive praise from Triss. Geralt, however, is overflowing with exhaustion. He leaves the shirt on and crawls back into the bed, glad to see the bard in the room. Dandelion gives him a little smile in return, and shifts himself and his notes to the bed to work beside the witcher. Geralt presses his face into the bard’s thigh with a soft sound, and settles into sleep. 

“Careful of his head,” Ciri tells Dandelion who frowns. The bard carefully parts milky white hair, looking over the scrapes and gashes. 

“Poor thing,” he says softly. 

“I see that wore him out right proper,” Triss comments, shaking her head slightly. She’s still not sure dragging the poor man up and down the stairs was good for him, but it hadn’t seemed to do him any harm, either. She’s just glad it seems he can tolerate fabric now. As he regains strength, it means it’s time for them to move on. She looks up to meet Yennefer’s violet eyes, the other sorceress knows. Maybe another day at most, and they’ll need to be on the road. 

Geralt sleeps through the rest of the afternoon and into the next morning, waking up with Ciri in his and Yennefer’s arms, and Dandelion at his back. He stretches slightly, amazed at how content he feels. And how much better, overall. While his scalp is sore, he no longer has a blinding headache. Shifting in minute amounts to see how he’s feeling, he dislodges Dandelion slightly, causing the bard to grumble in his sleep. Yennefer sits up, hair braided back to keep it from being too badly mussed in her sleep. She blinks at him, and looks at him sharply, almost as if telling him to stop moving around. With a hitch of one shoulder, he settles down, he can stretch himself out later. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're bored during our fun quarantine situation, maybe alleviate some of my boredom and leave a comment?


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have messed something up trying to fix chapter order. I am sorry if I did. Let me know.  
> Also, sidenote: I've only read the books and seen the show (haven't quite finished the last book) ... I kinda get the vibe Geralt does not like Vesemir much? Anyone else kinda get that vibe? Is it just me?  
> Anyway. I guess that has like nothing to do with the fic I'm just asking. I know in the games they're chill.

Several miles from the town, Ciri twists back in her saddle to look back. She automatically touches the satchel that rests against her leg, checking it’s still with her. Triss had supervised the making of multiple healing remedies, and she keeps feeling as though she’s going to lose it. There’s herbs, emetics, and powders, and so many things she knows will help should any of them get sick or injured again. Geralt still isn’t up to resuming much of her training as actively as she’d like, but he’s had her work several forms while correcting her footing on what felt like an endless loop. He’d grumpily informed her if she was sick of being told to make a correction, perhaps she should just make it. Dandelion had informed him perhaps he should take a rest, and had taken Ciri with him to see if there were any edible plants around. 

They’d found a decent haul of berries and tubers. Utterly unsurprised to find Yennefer has been successful hunting, Dandelion watches her skin the rabbit. He’s learned not to be surprised at anything she manages to do. Geralt is asleep in his bedroll, his ashen pallor even more pronounced than usual. Still recovering, the long rides make his knee ache abominably and even with the days of being an invalid, he doesn’t quite feel rested. 

It’s a boring few days for the group; hard travel, a limited diet, and an irritable witcher don’t make the time pass any quicker. Ciri tries a few things to ease the pain in Geralt’s leg, and while a plant that causes numbness helps, the effect is temporary. Yennefer points out it’s just going to ache until it gets better on its own, unfortunately, which makes Geralt even more unpleasant at turns. All the same he does resume teaching his lion cub how to use her sword more effectively. She’s already quite good, and with Geralt’s leg slowing him down, she seems better than she is. Something she quickly gets sick of having the witcher remind her of, time and time again. 

The fire crackling in front of her, Ciri watches Geralt from the corner of her eye. He’s watching the flames, elbows on his knees, chin on his knuckles. He’s had odd dreams of late, ones Yennefer can’t see, even though she can read minds. Not wanting to risk causing permanent mental injury, she hadn’t bothered to pry. Fate and destiny do what they will, and if they don’t want her breaking in, she won’t. At least not like this, on the road without her implements and other tools. Perhaps with help, or time to prepare a spell she could break in without risking Geralt’s sanity. For now, other than his dreams waking them in turn, there’s no other unpleasantness to be had from it. He can’t remember them, he just draws Ciri closer, after, heart pounding. If they were in her house in Vengerberg, Yen would be putting her incredible skill and power towards solving that little mystery, but currently she’s far more concerned about them making it away from the encroaching Nilfgaardian armies. 

Geralt’s nose wrinkles as they pass another burned out village. There’s not much left but a few goats and some cows. And blood. Dandelion clucks his tongue in distress, muttering to himself as he writes in his saddle. Ever pragmatic, Yennefer dismounts to check inside some of the farmhouses for anything left that might be edible. Geralt hopes she’ll find beer, and is disappointed when she does not find any kind of alcohol. She does find some chickens who are still laying along with several eggs that hadn’t yet turned. Dandelion manages to find a small vegetable garden, and they have quite a feast before moving on. 

“There’s something to be said about all this,” the bard says softly as they ride away. 

“Hm?” 

“We’re so used to this, there was a village here. People, families, hopes, dreams, and it’s all burned to ash and hacked to bits. And we don’t even care anymore other than to see if there’s something we can take.” 

“No sense in wasting anything, if no one’s around to use it,” Yennefer points out, voice carefully bland. 

Ciri looks at Geralt, unsure of what to say. She thinks the only response would be to go back and destroy the armies who did this. Soldiers shouldn’t kill peasants. They shouldn’t kill normal people. They shouldn’t even bother them. They should only kill each other, after all they signed up to die. It’s their job. No one’s making them do it. 

“I don’t think we’re used to it,” Geralt says quietly, feeling stupid. “I might just be a simple witcher,” he ignores Yen’s snort. “But I think if we were to look too closely, think too much, we might not press on. There’s only so much darkness a soul can take on before it gives up all light.” 

“I suspect that comes from all the books you’ve read, rather than something of your own, but I don’t think you’re wrong,” Dandelion agrees. He’s somewhat used to Geralt philosophizing when the mood strikes him. Even if normally he would have teased Geralt about all the reading he’s done to impress Yennefer, it seems strange now that they’ve shared a bed. And now that they’re travelling companions. Dandelion’s also fairly sure anything teasing he said to the witcher would somehow end up turned around in his own disfavor thanks to the enchantress. 

With a slight pang of hurt, Geralt stands up in his saddle, looking around for any kind of movement or threat on the path ahead. He’s heartsick with all the death and violence and misery. He can’t stand to even notice it anymore, since there’s nothing he can do about it. Witchers are meant to stop monsters, and to protect the people. Even if it is for coin. There’s no one left here to protect, in these places. The monsters have long gone, leaving only their echoes. 

They make camp a few miles away from the village, unable to rest among the ghosts and blood. Yennefer watches the fire moodily. She’s sick of being on the road deprived of most of her creature comforts. And now, having Ciri with them means she can’t distract herself with sex with Geralt. It would be inappropriate and she also doesn’t want to take her attention away from Ciri. There’s too many risks. She does set up some basic protections around their camp that wouldn’t activate unless they’re attacked. No signals would be sent up unless something bad happened, at which point safety matters more than anonymity. 

Geralt doesn’t settle down for what feels like ages, pacing the perimeter of their camp, pausing and listening at intervals, and in general acting like a caged animal. Dandelion watches him for a while, quietly plucking at his lute. Ciri settles near him, discomfited by Geralt’s behavior. 

“Enough,” Yen finally snaps at him, and he looks at her with wounded eyes. She sees his pupils reflect in the firelight and she gets up. “We’ll know if someone is coming. The horses will let us know, the wards will let us know, the forest animals will let us know. And if you don’t stop pacing you will give us all such palpitations none of us will sleep. And if we’re going to get to Kaer Morhen without dying, we need to be rested.” 

He looks away from her, unable to meet her gaze. Her eyes are beautiful in the flames, dancing like flowers in the wind. She’s not wrong, but all this death has adrenaline coursing through his body. People he can’t save, blood and charred flesh he can still smell on the breeze, it’s unending. The violence plucks at him, even from miles away. 

“What?” she demands, determined to get him to speak to her. He’s been oddly quiet ever since that crack about his not having his own thoughts. 

“You can’t feel it?” he demands, his voice a growl low in his throat. “You don’t feel it?” he repeats, helplessly. “It’s all around,” he complains with a shudder, baring his teeth. 

She strokes his cheek lightly, and he flinches away. “I feel it,” she nods. “I just refuse to let it control me.” 

“I’m a monster, Yen, I don’t have much choice. Everything goes to shit once we smell blood. Can’t help ourselves. ” 

She resists the urge to slap him. “You are not a monster, Geralt, don’t you ever say that in front of me again,” she hisses. She doesn’t truly want to hurt him, but nothing’s particularly stopped him from thinking of himself as less than human. She glances back, the bard seems to have Ciri occupied, and is even showing her a few things on his lute. Glad the girl is distracted, she doesn’t want Ciri suffering any of this. “You don’t want to kill or rend flesh or murder innocent people, you ass. You want it to stop. You’re restless because you feel helpless, not because your blood is stirred up by the suffering of others.” 

He simply bares his teeth at her again, rather than justify anything she’s saying with a real response. She steps in close and grabs him by the genitals. 

“I don’t feel any arousal,” she points out. 

Geralt stares at her, unsure of how to get himself out of this situation but she quite literally has him by the balls so he’s at her mercy. “Yen,” he says hesitantly, wondering what kind of mood she’s in. She’s never hurt him before, but there’s a first time for everything. Tempers are short, and stress levels high. He could get free, he could hurt her, make her let go. But he’d rather she did it on her own. Not to mention he’ll let her do what she pleases if it means she’ll stay. She’s never done him physical harm before, once or twice seems a fair price to pay. 

“Bard, play something soothing.” She arches an eyebrow. “Play something to soothe the savage beast,” she clarifies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She releases Geralt, and he immediately puts a hand over his groin, checking himself over for injury and rearranging himself in his pants. Quickly, he then steps away to go sit by Ciri. He settles on the ground, rather than on the log they found to sit on. He leans his back against it, watching Dandelion gape at Yennefer until she comes over and kicks his foot. “Play a lullaby,” she demands. 

“Well if you put it that way,” he says, fingers already working. Ciri leans against his leg, enjoying his quiet strumming. When he starts singing, she sighs deeply. It’s not to be a happy lullaby, she discovers, but it’s beautiful all the same. 

Geralt draws a knee up to his chest, bracing his forearm against it and leaning forward. He’s comfortable enough, in spite of Yen's attempt on his manhood, with his other leg straight out in front of him. His knee aches. It always aches. At least the fire feels nice, and not moving or being on a horse anymore helps. He tugs the crotch of his pants a bit, the seam bothering him more than usual. He's far more aware of himself than usual and probably will be for a while yet. 

Ciri falls asleep, having found a way to settle her head on Dandelion's knee without getting in the way of his lute. Geralt watches her a few moments before hesitantly reaching out to stroke her hair. She's so small. And while she is quite fierce it still makes his heart ache. Could he have turned her into a witcher? Could he have let Vesemir put her through the trials if those were still an option? He doesn't think so. The training was enough. Her magicks are enough. 

Dandelion pretends to ignore Geralt inching closer to him. When the witcher settles himself with his head against the bard's hip he just keeps playing and singing. He knows half or more of Geralt's goal is to curl up around his cub, but some of it is indeed to be close to the bard. He glances at Yennefer who is fussing with her bedroll. She doesn't much mind where the white wolf sleeps, he's learned. Provided of course if said wolf chooses to be unfaithful he lets her know in advance. 

Once, in a very rare kind of moment, Geralt had been so very drunk he'd told Dandelion a bit about what had transpired between him and the sorceress in the past. He had been devastated that she had been sleeping with another at the same time as him. Apparently Geralt at least, preferred monogamy, especially when cohabitation of any kind was involved. Thanks to that one night, Dandelion is very much aware of how much he would hurt the witcher were he to stray while they were in proximity. And as such, he intends to stay faithful until their travels break them apart or Geralt indicates a desire to end their carnal relations. 

When he feels Geralt's nose press into his hip he looks down again. The Witcher appears to be asleep, and trying to find a more comfortable position. He slowly stops strumming, his voice winding down. 

"Not yet, please," Yennefer asks softly. "Just a few more." 

Shocked, he nods dumbly, and resumes playing. It's a little hard to ignore Geralt shifting, but finally he manages to get his head at the crease of Dandelion's hip rather than the side. Geralt sighs softly and doesn't move again. When he finishes the last song he can think of, having played several more songs than 'a few more' the only sounds in the camp are the chirrups of insects and the soft crackling of the fire. 

He's exhausted but unsure of how to move without waking the sleeping wolf and cub. Then Ciri moves with a soft yawn and he freezes. 

"He won't wake up if we're careful," she whispers. 

Dandelion raises a brow, does the lion cub read minds, too? Or is just that obvious he doesn't know what to do and wants to get some sleep as well? Ciri curls into Geralt carefully, and his breathing changes slightly as he automatically curls around her, seeking affection and warmth. Dandelion carefully slips off the log and sets his lute in the case, still using his body to brace theirs. With Ciri's help he eases Geralt down and settles himself for sleep, too. Exhausted, he doesn't stay awake a second longer than it takes for his head to touch his blanket. 

When the birds start singing loudly, he wakes up to the sun on his face dispelling some of the chill in the air. However, he finds he's quite warm despite having lost his blankets somehow. It takes a second for his sleep muddled brain to notice Ciri's head on his chest and arms around his middle. And another second to notice Geralt curled around then both, one hand fisted in the bard's shirt. Dandelion puts his hand over Geralt's and gently loosens it. Geralt shifts with a sigh, arm moving around Ciri's middle as he repositions himself. He frees himself from Ciri next, who rolls over to push her face into Geralt's chest. 

Freed entirely, he gets up as slowly as he can before heading behind the nearest tree. When he comes back to the bedrolls Geralt's eyes are open and watching him. He can't breathe for a second or two, because even though the witcher's eyelids are half closed against the brightness of the sun, the irises are practically glowing. 

"I wish you could see yourself," he whispers, enthralled. The sun catches Geralt's hair, still mostly clean, and turns it a soft gold, and his eyes…. Even the paleness of his skin seems to take on the light and absorb it into itself. Not unlike the moon. Fingers twitching, notes dance under his fingers and around in his head and he dives for his pack. Desperately pulling out paper and pen he begins to scribble furiously. 

Ciri wakes up to the scratching sound and looks around blearily. When Geralt runs a hand over her back she heaves a sigh and presses her face back into his shirt. He snuggles in closer to her again, looking around the camp. Yennefer is still asleep, he thinks. If nothing else she's chosen not to get up yet and he can't fault her. For all he wishes she'd chosen to sleep with them rather than apart. Years of loving her have taught him that she needs space at times, and he doesn't begrudge her. Especially if it means she won't threaten crushing his balls with her bare hand again. Not that he really thinks she would, she enjoys them too much to do them permanent harm. 

At some point he realizes he needs to get up or his bladder will rupture and he extracts himself from his cub and retreats to a tree at the edge of camp. When he gets back Ciri is awake and poking life back into the fire as Yennefer appears to be looking for breakfast. She isn't much for cooking, but it doesn't mean she won't get out supplies. She'd once told him 'Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I have to be a slave. Cook your own damn breakfast.' He'd laughed which had angered her until she realized he wasn't laughing at her and he wasn't opposed to what she'd said at all. 

Dandelion continues his writing, jaw relaxed and tongue barely poking out the side of his mouth as Geralt and Ciri work on heating breakfast. Occasionally Geralt looks up at the bard, shakes his head, and returns his attentions to the cured sausages so he doesn't burn them. Ciri finishes the small corn cakes and sets them aside from the coals within moments of Geralt doing the same with the sausage. 

"Breakfast," he says, loud enough the others should hear him but not so loud anyone outside their small clearing should hear them. Yennefer joins them and Geralt takes some over to the bard. Dandelion eats one-handed without really paying attention. Geralt ignores him, eats his own breakfast and starts stretching stiff limbs. 

Ciri watches with interest as the witcher seems to pop and crack at every joint as he bends and stretches. She wonders if she will do that, too, as she gets older. When she's finished with her food, she wipes her hands on her skirts. She hasn't been travelling in breeches yet, she doesn't want to attract the attention a woman in pants seems to bring. She copies the witcher, stretching her body and checking her balance. She then ties her skirts up so that they won’t trip her. 

Geralt waits until she's done before taking up his sword. She goes over to Kelpie and removes her own weapon from the saddle. They find a spot away from the fire without too much to trip over before they begin. The clash of metal startles Dandelion and he looks up, jaw slack. Geralt and Ciri dance, blades ringing as they spring together and apart, whirling in a dance of death. He calls out commands and attacks, countering her, snapping about her footwork and wrists as they whirl like dervishes. 

“Fuck,” the bard comments succintly. 

With a resounding clang, Ciri's sword drops to the dirt. She swears profusely and stamps her foot. Geralt slaps her across the backside with the flat of his blade, prompting her to dive for her sword and press the attack. “Calm, control,” he reminds her. “Control, not anger.” He disarms her again, swatting her rump another time. She loses her temper and attacks without her blade, managing a lucky kick that strikes his bad leg. He hits the ground, but lashes out quick as a snake, striking her and then hooking her leg and dropping her to her back in the dirt. 

He’s swearing, too, at this point, knee screaming as she attacks him again. He slams her into the dirt, mindful of his strength, but also done with her for the moment. She lays there gasping, winded as he rolls off her, trying to get up. He can barely make it into his feet, she got him just right. He leaves her to gasp and pant, absolutely without sympathy or remorse for the moment. Dandelion starts to get up and Yen holds up a hand, and he pauses. 

“Let them work it out on their own,” she tells him. 

“I think they rather have, don’t you?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“She can’t be meaning to get up and attack again?” 

“She lost her temper and he almost lost his, let them both cool down a minute.” She has a feeling if the bard goes over to Geralt he’ll get his head bitten off. If he goes to Ciri, she’ll go after Geralt again in response. 

“Almost lost his? He threw her into the dirt and half smashed her!” 

“She’s alive, is she not? He kept his temper.” 

“And you don’t mind at all he’s slamming her around like that?” 

“She kicked him. And lost her temper twice. Sometimes life teaches us lessons in an unpleasant way. Those tend to be the ones we remember best. For better or for worse. She won’t soon forget to mind her temper. I also hope she won’t kick him in the leg again. In a real fight she should take advantage of any weakness. This is just training and if she keeps on it he won’t ever be in a good mood ever again.” 

“I simply do not understand you at all. Any of you, really. How cruel was your schooling at Aretuza? People willingly send their daughters there, and yet it seems they all come out as cold as you.” 

“Practicality is not always coldness. We can’t all be driven by our feelings.” 

“I am not driven by feelings.” 

“Excuse me, driven by your cock, then. Sticking it in anything willing and warm.” 

“I, I do so much more than just put my cock in things! I write histories and teach lectures and write songs! Famous songs, songs other bards sing. I am quite the accomplished troubadour and I am well respected in my fields! My education simply didn’t beat all the light and joy out of me-” he stops and looks at her, and looks over at Geralt and his face drops. “God, I didn’t mean it, Yennefer.” 

“You did. Now be quiet for a bit.” 

Dandelion waits until Geralt settles by him, limping heavily. He lightly touches Geralt’s leg, ignoring the dangerous look the witcher gives him. “They have some things to numb that, let me get some and help you,” he offers quietly. He can see the pain in Geralt’s face, and knows how much it cost him to get up out of the dirt. The witcher waits a few moments and then nods, unbuckling his belt. 

The bard gets up to rifle through the saddlebags looking for medicine. When he finds the correct jar, he pulls it out and returns to Geralt, who has managed to slide his breeches down to a little below his knee in the meantime. Without a word, he undoes the stopper and starts working the salve into Geralt’s leg. He looks up to see Geralt close his eyes in relief. By the time he’s done, his fingers are numb, along with his palms. It takes him a few tries to seal the stopper, and then he puts the jar back where he got it. Then he heads to the stream to rinse his hands and hope that it’ll return some feeling into them. 

It doesn’t work and he chooses for once, not to complain, knowing Geralt will feel awful about it. By the time he gets back, he can see most of their things have been packed. It looks like they’ll be riding on soon. Which means Geralt will be in plenty of pain by the time they stop for the night. He’s been hiding it well, here and there, but Ciri kicking him had probably been a last straw. 

The last few things secured to their saddles, Yennefer looks around the camp, making sure there’s no trace of their fire or anything else left in the clearing. Once they’ve mounted up she claps her hands, speaking a few words that cause wind to brush over the clearing. Leaves and sticks scatter, and their footprints disappear. It should be enough to stop anyone from following their trail, not that they’ve left much of one. 

It doesn’t take long before Ciri brings her horse up alongside Geralt’s, speaking to him. They converse for a while, heads tilted towards each other. Yennefer smiles, aware they’re making up. They ride for what feels like hours before stopping for a meal. Geralt slips off his horse with a groan, swearing darkly before stumbling out of sight. Yennefer rolls her eyes and mutters something about him at least having the decency to step away. 

They eat cold rations from their travel bags without much conversation. Geralt’s obvious pain and discomfort precludes any interest in conversation. He tends to ruin conversations when he’s in a bad enough mood. Ciri sits next to him, clearly still apologizing. Before they break camp she brings out the jar again, offering it to him. He takes it, understanding it’s a peace offering of sorts. Yennefer steps over this time, kissing him gently on the cheek. 

“I’ll do it,” she tells him. Not that he couldn’t do it himself, but it’s an excuse to touch him. He looks at her, and she can see a bit of hunger there. She smiles sharply. “Not here,” she informs him. All the same he controls himself, and has no reaction to her when he slips his pants down. She kneads his leg, the salve on her hands. He groans, considering she’s working the muscle much harder than the bard had. When the medicine kicks in, he sighs deeply. At least now her ministrations aren’t hurting him anymore. For all he’d admit it will probably help to have her work the muscles. Perhaps he could leave the cub with the bard for just long enough to satisfy some other hungers. Yennefer catches his thought and rolls her eyes. “You can’t drown out misery with sex,” she points out. 

“I can try,” he tells her. 

“You can, but not right now.” She pats his leg when she’s done, and stands up. “Get dressed. We have to keep riding.” 

He grunts in response, but does as she says. He kisses her again before she can move away. When he gets over to Roach, she headbutts him and lips at his clothes. He catches himself by the bridle or she would have taken him down. He pats her cheek and scratches under her chin, wishing he had an apple for her. When he sees Dandelion hasn’t managed to mount up yet, he gives Roach a pat and then walks over to his bard, taking his hand for a moment, almost shy. Dandelion grins and kisses him, cupping his cheek. It feels silly, needing that, but he did. He kisses his bard again, before grabbing up his reins and mounting up. 

“Gross,” Ciri tells him, and he gives her a glare. It’s an absolutely empty gesture, and they both know it. “Doubly gross,” she adds after the glare. 

He curls his lip at her, and kicks Roach around. She laughs when he starts off at a trot, knowing he’s mostly still playing up their joke. She kicks Kelpie after him, leaving Yennefer and Dandelion to keep their horses at a more stately walk behind them. There’s no danger yet. When Geralt notices she’s catching up to him, he kicks Roach into a gallop, allowing her to have her head as he loosens his grip on the reins. She stretches out and flies over the dirt, and he leans into her, feeling the wind whip through his hair and over his face. Ciri laughs as her horse lengthens her stride trying to catch up to Roach. Kelpie is a wonderful horse, full of spirit and competitive spirit. 

They race across the trails, tails streaming out like flags behind them. Yennefer sighs and looks at the bard. “We’re going to have to speed up, aren’t we?” she asks idly. 

“Perhaps, perhaps they’ll both gallop so hard they fall off their horses and break their necks, dying tragically and wastefully. Then we won’t have to do much of anything, will we? I mean, I would of course compose a truly wonderful dirge, and ballad, mentioning many heroics. And then also a cautionary tale of a song, warning people to mind themselves when riding foolishly into the sunset...” 

“They are liable to break their necks, aren’t they? Racing ahead like imbeciles with no clue what’s ahead.” 

“Trees are ahead,” he says, squinting. “I hope that they have the sense to slow down when they hit the treeline and wait for us.” 

“Have you ever known Geralt to have much sense?” 

“No, of course not. He does everything without a plan, based on whatever he’s feeling.” 

“We must be just as bad. Since we’re the ones following him right now.” 

“Well, then let’s catch up,” Dandelion suggests. He sits up in his saddle a bit, kicking Pegasus into a reluctant trot. His fat little horse hates running. Yennefer laughs a bit, caught up in the change in mood. She shakes her head, but kicks her horse into a trot behind his, for all her gelding quickly passes his. 

Thankfully Geralt and Ciri did manage to stop at the treeline, they’re waiting for the others, and giving their horses a chance to rest. He seems to have forgiven her and she him, completely. 

When Yennefer catches up she sees them, standing together, talking. They’re still ignoring the painful things, she can tell. They’ve been on the road, which makes it harder for them to have a heart to heart. The pain they’re both carrying from after the fall of Aretuza is still around them like a miasma. Their plan is to reach Kaer Morhen, somewhere they should all be safe. She has a feeling then, and only then, will the wolf and his cub deal with all the things unspoken between them. 

She glances around the woods, hesitant to enter them, with the Scoia’tael still about. Their war with the humans hasn’t exactly ended just because Nilfgaard has been taking over. If anything, the war has escalated here and there. It feels as if every time they pass through the woods they have to fear being attacked, or finding bodies. They’re all so sick of seeing bodies in the trees. They’re sick of seeing bodies, she supposes. 

Dandelion reaches them, and he pulls up closer than Yennefer did, invading their space to make them laugh. He glances at the forest with some trepidation, Yen sees. She isn’t the only one worried, clearly. She watches Geralt breathe deep, nostrils flaring. He doesn’t seem bothered by anything he smells. So if there’s any bodies nearby, they’re old enough they don’t upset him. 

“I don’t see the point in trying to go around,” Dandelion is saying as she finally walks her horse up to them. 

“We don’t need to piss off the elves.” 

“Geralt, we need to get through as quickly as possible, you said,” Ciri points out. 

“Then we need to be quiet and careful,” he points out. 

“Then we should muffle all the tack on the horses,” Ciri says. “We have enough rags,” she adds. They’d kept some of the old bandaging and what all else in case someone got injured again. It doesn’t take long and any bit of tack that jingles has rags tied around and in it, stopping it from making a sound at all. Yennefer’s necklace at her throat undergoes a quick charm to hide it, and Geralt tucks his medallion into his shirt. 

Ciri straps her sword to her horse again, wrapping rags over the hilt to hide what it is. At least as much as she can, it’s relatively obvious it’s a blade of some kind. But no one needs to know it’s a witcher’s blade. Geralt still wears both his over his shoulder, and he takes point for several miles. They find a stream to stop and water the horses, letting them graze for a few minutes before walking them a ways. 

“We’ll need to make camp soon,” Dandelion whispers. They hadn’t spoken since entering the forest. It’s oddly quiet, even the usual birds and rodents had seemed subdued. 

“I should like to be out of here, first,” Geralt grumbles, looking around. 

“I think we all would,” Yen says in a low voice. “So let’s keep moving.” 

Ciri remounts, waiting for the others to do the same before allowing Kelpie to walk towards the setting sun. They know there’s villages on the other side, there’s always something. And it’s not Brokilon, they should be safe here. Barring any attacks by the Scoia’tael. 

It feels like hours, and they can’t see the sun through the trees anymore. The forest exists in washes of grey. When the horses start to huff and twitch their ears even more than usual, Geralt starts looking for a place to camp. 

“No fires,” he says, nostrils flaring as he does his best to scent out any danger. 

“We’ll lay out the bedrolls together,” Yennefer agrees. The forest seems less cold than the world they left behind. She can feel it, too, whatever it is that has Geralt reacting like the world is going to go up in flames any second. She feels like she might crawl out of her own skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Hope it's going well. I'm out of work for 2 weeks, so hit me up with comments.  
> You can find me on tumblr, and as per usual thanks to my lovely beta. You're the best monochroma. 
> 
> I'll try and update weekly. I've got a lot written, and a lot to fill in. So, it's just a matter of editing and bridging some chapter gaps. :}


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been reading since the start, I had edited chapters 1-4, I think, and then reuploaded them today. I know there were a lot of changes to some of those chapters, and not as much in others. So if you need to go back and re-read you might need to do that. As of 4/9 the past chapters are current.   
> Please know: I am not using game lore. Don't have access to them and don't like watching walk-thrus. So if I don't do things the same way as the games, sorry. I'm basing it off the books/tv show.   
> Thanks as always to my beta, who gets to re-read the whole fic and check for continuity errors when I do things like edit in an entirely new chapter out of no where. Love you monochromaaa. And thanks to prodigalra for helping clean up a few things that were making me excessively angry.

When a cricket calls they all jump, and Ciri laughs nervously. Yennefer hushes her and they work to make camp as silently as possible. Geralt shifts their arrangement for a change, putting the bard at his front. He shifts his swords so that they’re within reach and so Ciri and Dandelion make up the center of their bedrolls. Yennefer is on the other edge, not exactly where Geralt would like her, but he can’t split himself in half to be at her back, too, and she’s more than able to take care of herself. She’s a proficient killer. Ciri has her sword within reach, too, and so they should be able to take care of themselves. 

Still incredibly anxious, senses on high alert, Geralt shifts minutely for what feels like hours. Yennefer reaches a hand out over both Ciri and Dandelion and he reaches back and takes it, letting her run her thumb over his knuckles. It’s oddly soothing, and he falls asleep holding her hand. They should have probably put up a watch or slept in shifts, but they’re all exhausted, and quite frankly with Geralt’s superhuman senses he doesn’t need to be awake to be alert to react to danger. 

When the sun comes up, it finds their small group already awake and breaking down the camp. They’d managed to sleep a few hours, in spite of the tension, but when they’d noticed the predawn grey filtering in through the trees they’d given up and decided to move on. Roach whuffs gently into Geralt’s shirt when he comes over to saddle her up and check her bridle. He lets himself hug her and scratch under her jaw, patting her neck. It’s soothing and he looks forward to being able to groom her properly soon. Her coat is dusty and he can feel where her hair is matted from sweat and spittle. “Poor thing,” he mumbles to himself, and she shakes out her mane in response. 

They walk the horses through the forest for what feels like a few miles, mindful not to crush any plants they don’t have to, or snap any branches. Geralt passes Roach off to Yennefer so she’s walking to, and he does his best to bend and hold obstacles out of the way, or move fallen logs and then put them back. Something about the forest tells them not to disturb it in any way they can avoid. 

While his heartbeat is usually slow, it’s thundering in his ears, and he can hear all of theirs, too. No one is calm. They let the horses drink at a stream, and Geralt wipes sweat off his brow. Dandelion’s hair is dark against his scalp, and Ciri’s ashen hair sticks to her face. The forest isn’t warm, but none of them can stop feeling the press of panic pushing down on them. 

“It’s magic,” Yennefer whispers after some time. “It’s meant to keep us out, I think. We must be near the edge, we’ll be alright.” She wipes her forehead with the sleeve of her dress and they press on. 

When they find a small game trail, they quietly mount up, determined to take advantage of not having to walk for a bit. They eat in the saddle, none of them having much of an appetite. When the colder air starts to blow and Geralt can smell snow and ice on the wind, he starts to relax. The sky continues to lighten around them, and they notice most of it is the thinning of the trees rather than the strength of the sun. 

“There!” Ciri whispers, pointing, and they look, she’s taken point. “We’re almost out!” 

They allow the horses to speed up some, not to a trot but a faster walk at the very least. Pegasus snorts obnoxiously and Geralt winces. Roach attempts to reach out and bite the gelding and Geralt jerks her reins sharply with a small grunt of irritation. “Fuck,” he whispers to himself, wondering when he let her get that close to the stupid little horse. He knows Roach isn’t exactly the most sociable. She’s trained not to be. He’s supposed to be able to ride her into a fight if he needs to. Not that he’s usually remotely willing to risk her like that. 

Dandelion slides off Pegasus when they break free of the treeline.

“Don’t you dare vomit,” Yennefer tells him. “Get back on that useless horse of yours and let’s get out of here. We aren’t out of danger yet.” 

The bard shoots her a glare and then drags himself back into the saddle before flapping the reins and kicking Pegasus’ flanks to try and get him moving. Geralt, watching the fat little horse absolutely refuse to mind his rider, allows Roach to approach and nip. Pegasus squeals and takes off with Dandelion swearing on his back. 

Yennefer looks at Geralt and raises an eyebrow. He shrugs and twitches the reins and Roach breaks into a trot. He knows Ciri is nearby, he can hear Kelpie, and turns to look just in case. What he sees makes his heart stop for a second, there, in the treeline are hundreds of eyes. He’d known they were being watched the whole time. 

The sorceress catches the look on the witcher’s face and turns, but when she does nothing is there. He’s gone even paler than usual, but he shakes himself and then turns back in his saddle. She sees him settle and give his horse her head, and she stretches her legs, happy to run after all that time creeping over roots and branches. Kelpie cannot stand being in the back and reaches her legs, stretching out and breaking into a gallop. 

With a disgusted sigh Yennefer kicks her palfrey into a trot, she has no intention of being left behind. At least her horse isn’t going to go around biting the others if they get into close quarters. Kelpie is spirited, too, and frequently prone to misbehaving. She’d snapped at Geralt once and he’d popped her in the nose. She hadn’t tried that again. Now she attempts to bite Dandelion whenever she has the chance, probably in hopes of making him squeal. Vicious little beast, she’s perfect for Ciri. 

By the time Geralt catches up to Dandelion, the poor bard is leaned over the side of his horse puking. He winces sympathetically. Yennefer and Ciri have magic themselves, so it had bothered them far less. Geralt had been in overdrive, but his body doesn’t react like a human’s would anyway. He pulls up alongside Pegasus, pulling Roach’s reins back so she can’t reach out her head. 

Dandelion wipes his mouth and looks at Geralt pitifully. “That was quite rude of you, you know.” 

“It wasn’t me,” Geralt says placidly. “Drink some water,” he suggests. The bard does, and spits a little of it out first. Geralt tips his head up and breathes deeply. He’s not sure if he can smell anything other than horse, open land, and their small group, but he might smell some ash. Could be another burned out husk of a town. Or it could be a fully functioning one. 

“What?” 

“Not too sure yet. We’ll have to keep riding.” 

“Well I suppose there’s no time like the present,” Dandelion sighs. Then he looks at Roach, who is inching her head towards Pegasus’ withers. “Don’t you dare, you vile beast!” he flails a leg free of the stirrup to try and ward her off. 

Geralt reins her in sharply and she snorts in annoyance. “Damnit Roach,” he snarls, he’d only needed her to bite the fat little gelding once. She stamps and paws at the ground for a few seconds while the bard works on getting his horse moving forward again. When he sees that Yennefer and Ciri are ready to keep going and Dandelion has mastered his horse, Geralt kicks Roach after them. 

They ride for a ways and he falls behind without meaning to. His leg is aching and throbbing and he feels almost like he could die of it. It’s more upsetting that his leg won’t heal than anything else. Why should it still hurt? Tired and angry he urges Roach to catch up, mood blackening. 

They stop again for the night, Geralt waiting some before dismounting. He’d rather no one was watching him. No matter what his bad leg will have to take his weight and not crumple. If he pushes out of the stirrups with it, it just has to hold until he can get his other leg on the ground. If he pushes with his good leg, he has to land on the bad one. With a furtive glance around, he sees everyone is occupied with other tasks and swings his stiff leg up and over the saddle and down to the ground. Grateful that Roach is well trained enough she doesn’t side step, he clings to her pommel for a second, and then the stirrup as he gets his other leg under himself. 

He wipes away sweat from his forehead, leaning against her for a few moments more. “I’m sorry I can’t unsaddle you,” he tells her patting her neck. “We have to be ready to ride in a hurry.” He does bend, clinging to her stirrup, to rip up some dried grass from the ground and use it to wipe her down as best he can around her tack. He checks her hooves over carefully in the dim light, and scrapes the mud from the frogs of them with a fingernail to make sure that’s all it is, is mud. Satisfied there’s nothing wrong with her, he makes his way over to Pegasus and while he doesn’t wipe the grey horse down, he does check over the hooves, and then again with Kelpie who pulls back her lips at him. He lifts a fist and she snorts and innocently goes back to eating grass. He rolls his eyes and moves on to Yennefer’s horse. No harm done to any of them that he can see. Relieved, he hobbles his way over to the campfire. 

Yennefer holds up the little jar of salve and he nods gratefully.

“Should I just leave them undone?” he jokes about his pants, working them free of his hips. Yennefer rolls her eyes in turn, but works the salve into his leg all the same. When she’s done, he settles himself down on the ground beside her. Ciri and Dandelion are continuing work on setting up camp, and Geralt feels a moment of guilt. Yennefer looks at him, takes his hand, and leans into him. “I suppose I’m trapped now?” 

“Leave off that leg for the rest of the night. Provided nothing attacks us.” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

“I could turn you into a gem of some kind, until we get where we’re going, if you’d like to make jokes like that?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” He shifts some, and she allows him to. It takes them a few seconds of rearranging until they’re both comfortable. Geralt rests easier with his head in Yen’s lap, and she strokes his hair idly. 

“You’re filthy.” 

“You aren’t much better.” 

“If we find a stream before we find a town, we should clean up some.” 

“Provided the cold water won’t kill us as surely as Nilfgaard will.” 

“We can light a fire first, but truly we all smell horrible.” 

“I am aware, Yen.” 

“But it doesn’t bother you much, does it?” 

“No, plenty of things stink. It’s easier just to accept it than fight it.” 

“Is that why you bathe so rarely?” 

“No, it’s because coin is hard to come by when you’re a -” he doesn’t finish the sentence, eyeing her for a second with a slight wince. 

“A what, Geralt?” She raises an eyebrow. 

“A witcher,” he finishes carefully. 

“A witcher? That’s what you intended to say?” 

“Why, what else did you think I was going to say?” he asks, trying to look confused. 

When Dandelion comes over, passing over dried meat and hardtack biscuits, Geralt sighs. He sits up with a soft groan and forces himself to eat. He doesn’t want to, he’s not especially hungry he’s mostly just tired. When he’s done, he resettles in Yennefer’s lap, after brushing a few crumbs from her skirts. 

“You’ll lie down in mud, but some biscuit crumbs bother you?” she asks incredulously. 

“They itch,” he shrugs. “Mud doesn’t itch. It’s just mud.” 

“So eloquent, our witcher,” Dandelion rolls his eyes. “Although he rather has got a point, you know.”

“Dandelion? Do shut up,” Yennefer sighs. 

Ciri has nothing much to say about any of this, and curls her body into Geralt’s, her head on his outstretched arm. They shift a bit, causing Yen to have to adjust herself, too, until they find a comfortable medium and settle back down. The bard watches them for a few minutes, feeling oddly content to see Geralt looking relaxed. 

“Are you going to pile on top of me, too?” Yen asks sarcastically and Dandelion shakes his head. “Are you going to survive travelling like this?” 

“I’ve known Geralt longer than you have. If you think we haven’t traveled like the hounds of hell were chasing us before, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“Probably because you put your cock in the wrong person, rather than something he did, I suspect.” 

“As that may be, my point is simple, I will be fine. I can stand up to many hardships and privations.” 

She raises an eyebrow but feels as though Dandelion should know himself best. When Geralt starts to shift a bit, she strokes his hair gently, watching as he eases deeper into sleep. 

“Will you need help extracting yourself so you can rest?” 

“I’ll manage.” 

He gives her a look, but she seems genuine enough about it, and he throws himself down into his bedroll. He feels slightly odd, sleeping by himself again. Not that he hasn’t done it on occasion since Yennefer had closed the divide between them. He falls asleep quickly enough, and wakes up to the witcher at his back, Ciri and Yennefer missing. 

Since Geralt seems unalarmed Dandelion doesn’t rouse him. He knows the witcher would have been up if he’d been worried about them leaving. When Geralt wakes some time later, he breathes deeply a few times, nostrils flaring and Dandelion worries perhaps he should have woken him when he noticed the women missing. 

“Hm?” Geralt looks at him, concerned. 

“Ciri and Yen are…?” 

“Bathing.” 

“And they are doing that where?” 

“Small stream. Cold,” he shrugs. They’re fussier than he is. He doesn’t mind if he doesn’t have a chance to bathe for a few days. Witchers are made to be covered in filth. It’s what they do. 

“That sounds unpleasant but also welcome. Do you think-”

“Yen would turn you into a garden ornament.” 

“Alright, then,” the bard says briskly and rubbing his hands together with verve. “I suppose I should distract myself while we wait?” 

“Hopefully with something quiet,” Geralt says mildly Dandelion gives him a hurt look, laying a hand against his chest dramatically. 

“Geralt, you wound me.”

“Shut up, Dandelion.” He looks over his swords, sharpening the edge on his steel blade just a bit. Then he goes over to tend his horse, deciding his blades are fine. Kelpie, as always, puts her ears back and threatens to take a piece out of him, and as always, he lifts his fist in her direction until she looks away pretending to be a nice little pony. Roach, on the other hand, snuffles as she headbutts him, taking in his scent and rubbing her head all over him. He leans into her gratefully, stroking her neck. She seems fine despite being hard used as of late, and he starts working tangles from her mane. “Perhaps we should crop this?” he suggests, and she snorts at him, dipping down to rip up a tuft of grass she’d missed earlier. 

He raises his head when the womenfolk return, “I suppose now you could go,” he tells the bard, considering he’s not sure Yennefer will allow that extra time for Dandelion to freshen up. There should eventually be an inn they could go to, and everyone can have a proper bath. Not that Geralt much cares. He’s made for filth and all the other disgusting things humans don’t like. 

When Ciri throws her cloak over her head and shoulders, he has a feeling they’re moving on. It’s easy enough to start breaking down camp, making sure there will be no traces they were ever there. Yennefer does the same, and Geralt sighs heavily. He has something in his saddlebags that should hide his distinctive hair and armor. Once they’re all covered, and Dandelion has done the same, they move on. Again. 

The days start to blend together, and other than doing some hunting, not much changes. Geralt manages to bring down a few rabbits, a very small deer, and a bird or two. Fresh meat supplements their diet nicely. Geralt attempts to entice Yennefer into the shadows with him a few times while Ciri and the bard sleep, but he fails and ultimately gives up. She’ll come around when she’s ready. Currently her reasoning follows that it would leave Ciri to defend herself and the bard, and it’s a risk she’s unwilling to take. He can’t disagree with that, and as such moves on. Life is full of disappointment. 

They do manage quite a bit of kissing, when they have time. Dandelion is frequently distracted with writing his book, but when he’s alone with Geralt they fill their time with some affection, as well. Some part of Geralt is terrified now that the time and space for sex has dried up, with the amount of travel being so dreadfully dull, there’s no reason Dandelion will stay. They’ll stop off in a town, and the bard will find some new love, and they’ll split ways. It’s never bothered him before, having Dandelion leave when things are boring. This time it will be devastating. He can’t imagine why the bard would stay if his needs aren’t being met. 

Yennefer on the other hand, has pointed out to him in no uncertain terms she doesn’t need him for anything, she’s chose him. She chooses to be with him as long as it fits her fancy. On some level he can understand that. It makes it easier to understand why she’s still with him. Currently, it suits her fancy. They both want to protect Ciri. She doesn’t need any reason more than that. The fact that she’s said she loved him multiple times over the years doesn’t seem to have stuck with him or occurred to him as a reason she would stay with him for any period of time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this made you slightly less bored during our fun period of self isolation, leave me a comment and help me be slightly less bored?   
> find me on tumblr @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog and chat with me about the witcher?


	7. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lil angst, a lil fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the people editing this fic. I am so sorry. If I missed anything you pointed out, that's on me.

When they finally reach an inn, Yennefer books them two rooms. Dandelion and Ciri are deeply grateful for the bathwater being drawn up. Geralt is far less concerned, but knows it will please both Yen and Dandelion. He can hardly bear to be separated from Ciri for the time it takes him to scrub clean in the tub, ignoring Dandelion's constant fussing about the splashing. 

“Geralt you are getting water on the floor!” 

As he has for several years, he tunes out the complaining. The second he's clean he doesn't even dry himself, just tugs his clothes back on and heads outside the door to guard it until Ciri opens it and lets him in. Yennefer is taking her time in the tub and arches an eyebrow at Geralt. 

"Did you even wash your hair?"

"Yes." 

Ciri glances at him and then back at Yennefer. "He did, Yennefer. There's no dirt or leaves in it anymore." She goes over to the small vanity and picks up a comb. "Come sit, Geralt," she demands imperiously. "I'll fix up your hair." He obeys the lion cub, without comment, sitting and facing the enchantress as Ciri carefully brushes out his hair. She's mindful of every knot and tangle he'd created washing in such a rush. Borrowing some of Yennefer's hair product, she works it into Geralt's hair with the comb. Smoothing it gently once she's finished, she pulls it from the top and sides the way he likes and braids a small queue and ties it with a piece of string she pulls from her sleeve. 

"Geralt, why don't you lie down? You look exhausted." 

The Witcher grunts but doesn't move. He's suffered broken bones, cracked teeth, and lost several pints of blood to get his lion cub back and he's not willing to let her out of his sight. It’s almost impossible to sleep when he can’t see her, terrified if he closes his eyes it will all be a dream. It’s easier to believe on the road, somehow, than when they’re back in civilization. 

"Ciri, go lie next to him so he'll sleep," Yennefer makes an imperious gesture. "I'll send Dandelion for food when I'm done here. Geralt, stop glaring at me and get some rest. You look terrible."

Geralt grunts in response but raises himself from the chair. He holds his hand out for Ciri's and she takes it. He inspects the bed briefly for fresh stains and bugs. When he doesn't find any he slides under the sheets reluctantly. Ciri joins him, curling up at his side. Now that they're together again she has no intention of being parted from him. He wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. The white wolf has recovered his lion cub. 

Yennefer finishes bathing and dries herself. She dresses comfortably and goes to the other room. Dandelion is half dressed and glares at her. 

"Can't you knock?"

"I've seen your cock before." 

"Well, what brings you here?"

"Two things." She holds out some coins. "Dinner. And then, surely you don't intend to stay here?" 

"You booked two rooms."

"For appearances. And for bathing. I thought Ciri might want some privacy." 

She leaves Dandelion as she found him, and returns to her room. Working her oils into her hair, she patiently combs out and dries it. She keeps an eye on the sleeping witcher and child. He'd woken when she opened the door, lambent eyes tracking her around the room until she settled. 

When Dandelion comes back with food, Ciri rouses to the scent, and sits up eagerly to eat. The bard watches as Geralt glares at him balefully, displeased at being woken. Yennefer puts some food onto a plate and settles in the bed next to him, distracting him by holding food up to his mouth. He begrudgingly eats, taking over feeding himself after the initial bite. 

"Ciri, eat like a human being," Yennefer chides, "or at the very least eat less like Dandelion." She ignores the bard's glare as he stops shoveling food into his face like a pig. 

Ciri giggles and does her best to use utensils instead of her fingers. Finishing her meal, she licks her fingers clean despite the enchantress' annoyed glance. Crawling back into bed beside the witcher, she allows him to curl back up with her, clearly uninterested in finishing his meal.

“Geralt, you should eat,” Dandelion protests lightly. “Ciri, he should finish his meal.” 

Yennefer finishes her food and supervises the wenches clearing out the tub and dishes. Exhausted from weeks of hard travel, she crawls into the bed behind Ciri, putting an arm over the girl and the witcher, before impatiently glaring at the bard. 

Dandelion bolts the door and crawls into the bed behind Geralt, pressing his face into the other man’s shoulder blades. Geralt grunts slightly as he notices the addition to the small bed and does his best to make room. He falls back asleep quickly, his small world complete.

When Dandelion wakes up, Yennefer and Ciri are missing. Geralt is awake, watching him sleep apparently. He smiles a little, and nuzzles his partner, kissing him gently. “Perhaps we should take advantage of an empty room?” he suggests. 

“Yen said they would be back soon.” 

“There’s two rooms Geralt, we can bolt the door to this one or just go to the other.” 

“I want to know when Ciri gets back.” 

“You could have gone with them.” 

“People know who I am.” 

“We’ll find you a hat then. A nice hat, with feathers. And something other than your black witchers leathers. Something, a nice disguise, perhaps we could even dye your hair a bit. Change your look entirely. Dye Ciri’s, too, and just pretend you’re a nice little merchant family traveling about in search of buying and selling wares. It would be quite lovely.” He traces small shapes up Geralt’s arm idly, not trying to change his mind about the sex, just enjoying touching him intimately. Geralt never would have tolerated this before. He strokes clean, soft, white hair back out of amber eyes and looks at him. “What’s wrong?” 

“How would you fit into this, I’m curious,” Geralt gives him a look. One that seems to say he’s proud to have found a flaw. 

“Oh, clearly, I’m traveling with a small group of people to better protect myself in these dangerous times.”

“What a load of horse shit.” 

“People do travel in groups for protection Geralt.” 

“Yes, they do, but there would be guards. Perhaps it would be better if you played Ciri’s father and I played hired guard.” 

“Oh, I could never. She’s not much of an actress, she could never hide her affection for you.” 

“If she had anyone else, her affection would go to them.” 

Dandelion slaps Geralt’s arm. “Enough of that. Why must you always do that? Any time anyone tries to share a kind word with you, if it’s sincere sounding you repulse it! It was sincere. I meant it, the girl loves you like a father, you absolute oaf. Your oafishness is going to fuck a lot of things up for you if you won’t stop it!” 

Geralt lightly shoves Dandelion away, and gets out of the bed. Any good humor gone. He has nothing to say on the matter. No response, no idea what would make the bard think he hadn’t already had things go all cock-eyed on him plenty of times. “Go get us some breakfast please, Yennefer neglected to do that when they left.” 

“I won’t fetch and carry for you just to let you hide up alone in here.” 

“I can’t damn well go down there, and I would like something other than hardtack!” Geralt explodes. 

“And so what, I’m to believe this foul attitude is because you’re hungry? I don’t believe it for a moment, Geralt. I know how long you can go without food before your stomach starts to so much as growl! What is wrong with you?! Why are you so determined to cause tension and discord when we’re alone?” 

“I just want something to eat,” Geralt insists, turning away when the bard gets into his space. When Dandelion puts a hand on his shoulder and spins him around, he snarls. He could have simply refused to move. 

“We will have this out, and we will have this out now. Whether Ciri walks back into the middle of it or not.” 

“You’re being a horse’s ass!” Geralt hisses at him, keeping his voice low. “No one bloody well asks you about fuck all and you can’t just leave well enough alone! Things are fine as they are! We don’t have to do all this talking and prattling! We can just be as we were, or perhaps more but it doesn’t have to come with constant lectures! I am what I am: a mutant and a monster. I can’t change it. It can’t be undone. I don’t know why you feel the need to keep asking me to change. If you don’t like it, no one’s asking you to stay,” he snaps. 

“Just because you can’t be honest with yourself doesn’t mean I have to accept it, Geralt!”

“Then-” 

Both of them freeze as the enchantress and witcher girl let themselves into the room. Ciri’s eyes are huge and she stares first at Geralt and then at Dandelion. The bard’s face and neck are red with anger, and Geralt… Geralt looks livid. His pupils are barely visible, slitted so tightly she’d almost swear they were gone. 

“Do you-” the bard starts at the same time Geralt attempts to head him off with “Can you-” 

Yennefer claps her hands together hard and both of them fall silent. “Whatever has been going on, it’s over now. I don’t care. This is the end of the matter. At least until you two are alone again. Bard, stop antagonizing the witcher. I know you started it. He never starts much of anything. And you, Geralt, stop being an ass. You always make it worse.” She rubs at her forehead irritably. “Ciri please unpack our things and get them settled in our saddle bags. We’ll need to move on soon. Tomorrow, probably.” When she notices Geralt about to open his mouth, she glares at him. “Your leg hurting is no reason to act like a child. You’ve been alive longer than most. Act like it.” When the bard waggles his head a bit, making a face at the witcher she almost kills them both in a fit of temper. “I swear. I don’t know what happens when I leave, but you two will stop now. You will stop taunting him. And you will stop giving in when he does.” 

“I brought breakfast,” Ciri breaks in, seeing Geralt about to speak regardless of what Yennefer might do to him. 

“That’s all I wanted,” he says snidely, with a sharp glare at Dandelion. “Thank you, Ciri.” 

“Fresh tarts and some other pastries. We already ate, so you two can take what you like. We got other travel provisions, so need to save these. They won’t keep well anyway.” She lays them out on the small table, a kerchief beneath them. 

“Go’n then,” Dandelion snaps when Geralt doesn’t immediately get up. “If this is just about you needing to stuff your gullet, then go first. Take what you need. Eat it all! I can go get my own if need be!” 

“Will you play something, after?” Ciri asks, rather than let Geralt retaliate. “When you’ve eaten, will you play something on your lute? I miss the music in the dance halls,” she tells him. While it’s partly true, she’d rather play knucklebones or train with Geralt than sit around listening to the lute. 

“I could, yes. Whatever you would like,” Dandelion deflates and gets up to take both a meat pasty and a fruit tart from the table. 

Geralt waits a moment more, rubbing at his forehead tiredly. Yennefer is right, that’s enough of that. He gets up and looks over the selection, brain too tired to make a decision. 

“Try the red one,” Ciri offers, watching Yennefer looking over one of her books. They’ve been on the road too long, with no one but each other and constant fear for company. It’s too much. “It was my favorite. But the bluish one is quite good, too. I didn’t care for the yellow one but Yennefer said it was fine.” 

With a glance upwards, Geralt gives her a weak smile and selects the red and bluish pastries before retreating to the window to eat. It is good, and he feels marginally better with some food in his belly. Not that he suddenly wants to talk about how he has no feelings or can’t give Dandelion what he wants. Can’t be what Dandelion wants. He can’t be human. He can’t just be a normal human man. He’ll live too long, and look too different, and act too different, and never emote and change the way the bard wants. He rubs at his forehead again, sighing deeply. With nothing better to do he revisits the table and the leftover breakfast items. Perhaps something with meat would be more filling. Or at least eating gives him something to do and if his mouth is full no one will expect him to talk. 

Ciri smiles when Dandelion finishes and breaks out his lute. That will keep him from talking to Geralt, and causing any problems. Or so she thinks, until she hears the opening few chords and recognizes the tune. So does Geralt, judging by the narrowing of his eyes and the way his head turns. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a breath. Apparently there is no winning when the bard feels like being vindictive.

“Don’t play that again! Melitele’s tits,” Yennefer spits. “If I have to hear that damn song one more time, Dandelion...Play something else. Anything else. Play that song about the time he killed the vampire or something, but not the damn coin song again.” 

“Oh! How about one of the songs you played last time,” Ciri says hopefully. “I knew some of those,” she adds wistfully. The last time she’d danced, her grandparents still alive, there’d been happy music. Dandelion had played one of those songs for her, since they’d started travelling. 

“This one, perhaps?” he asks, strumming a few chords. 

She smiles brightly and nods. There’s no lyrics so he can’t get himself into trouble. She glances at Geralt quickly and he looks like a bow whose string has been cut. His eyes flick to hers for just a moment, and she knows he’s grateful for what she’s doing. “Dance with me,” she tells Geralt who gives her a panicked look. “This one’s easy, right Yennefer?” she holds out her hands and Geralt looks around for some kind of exit. There isn’t one. He grimaces and holds out his hands to her. He knows a few dances, because he's had to. He does not know this one. All the same the witcher allows the girl to teach him the steps with long-suffering patience and misery. For him. 

Yennefer steps in to help a few times, and allows Geralt to dance a few measures with her, unsurprised his witcher’s grace keeps him from stepping on her toes. She and Ciri teasingly pass him back and forth for the song. By the end of it, while it’s obvious his leg aches, they’re mostly smiling and laughing as a group again, the tension between them dissolved. 

The lunch hour comes and passes, they eat and laze about, Geralt opting to cat nap with Ciri as he pleases. Dandelion continues to work on his novel, and Yennefer continues to try and work out a spell or salve to ease Geralt’s leg more permanently than a few hours. When she’s had enough, she curls up next to the witcher, who shifts somewhat to accommodate her and otherwise doesn’t move. 

Dinner passes equally quietly. The food is good and they all overindulge a bit. Geralt prefers this kind of peace between them. No pushing to talk, no real need for conversation at all. He’s capable of simply allowing himself room to breathe and think without having to fill it non-stop with noise and chatter. They have so few safe moments, he doesn’t feel like he needs to do anything other than relax. Soon enough they’ll be back on the road and he’ll have to go right back to being hyper-alert at all moments. 

He goes to bed early, more tired than usual. He sleeps restlessly until Ciri joins him, and he stills once she’s in his arms. Yennefer burns down the candles a bit before putting her things aside and shifting into the bed. Ciri frowns in her sleep at the disturbance, pushing closer to Geralt which makes him shift closer to her in turn. His face creases and Yennefer gently reaches out and smooths a hand over his forehead and cheek until he eases back into calm sleep. 

Dandelion hesitates a bit, and then blows out the last candle and crawls into bed behind Geralt, slipping his arms around the witcher’s middle. They hadn’t exactly smoothed everything over and he isn’t sure the cantankerous witcher won’t shove him out of bed when he wakes up. 

Geralt shifts, waking just enough to lace his fingers through Dandelion’s over his stomach and press himself back into the bard before dozing back off. Dandelion knows all is forgiven and snuggles up comfortably before falling asleep a few moments later. 

** 

When morning comes Geralt reluctantly pulls himself out of bed. He splashes his face with cold water from the basin and it does little to wake him up. Grateful for a small mirror he scrapes away days of facial hair from his jaw with a little sigh of relief. That task accomplished, he slips his headband over his hair to keep his hair from his face before heading down the stairs to find himself some food. There’s not much else to be done. His leg is stiff but less horrible than usual, and while he’s still tired, it’s not the same bone-deep weariness that had been dragging at him earlier. Amazing what a night in a bed will do. 

Able to get some things they can eat, he heads back upstairs to their room and settles the dishes quietly on the small vanity table. He avails himself of the salve Yennefer has been using on his leg and sighs in relief. He feels a bit like an addict. Every few hours he needs his fix or he won’t survive. He glances at Ciri, glad she’s still asleep in Yennefer’s arms. Silently he resettles the jar on the table and picks at some of the food. 

Having gone to sleep earlier than the others, Ciri wakes up and finds Geralt not in bed with her. She looks around blankly and sees him sitting at the table. She gets up to join him and nibbles at some of the bread. Not awake enough to be truly interested in food she picks up the comb and starts working the snarls out of her ashen hair. By the time she’s done she’s awake enough to make a face at Geralt and remove his headband. He glares but she looks over at Yennefer and raises her eyebrows at him. 

He silently concedes her point and she brushes out his hair and ties it back with thread so that he won’t need the headband. Yennefer’s right, it does look stupid, Ciri feels. Kissing his forehead when she’s done, she feels awake enough to properly eat breakfast. He shows her how to peel a fruit she’s never seen before and they eat together in companionable silence. 

When Yennefer starts to rouse, Geralt knows she’ll wake the bard whether he’s ready or not. They should be moving on soon. He’s been seen, and people will comment on the white-haired witcher moving among them. Better not to give Skellen or Rience a chance to catch up with them. 

The witcher and his girl slowly pack up their things as Yennefer gets up and washes her face before brushing out her hair. She offers Geralt the salve for his leg and he shakes his head, indicating he’s already found it. He’s starting to smell a bit like the elderberry used along with  _ Stellaria Media _ and what he thinks might be rosemary. There’s arnica, too, he knows, and while the smells together aren’t all that pleasant at least it helps. Ciri helps Yennefer with her notes and various bottles. As she packs, Yennefer fills her stomach with the meagre offerings Geralt had managed to get them. She wonders if perhaps she should send the bard down to get them more food. Noting he’s still asleep she debates how best to wake him up. 

The unfortunate victim of that look many a time, Geralt chooses to wake Dandelion himself. With gentle caresses and a kiss or two he manages to rouse his sleeping lover. He’s rewarded for his ministrations with a soft smile and cornflower blue eyes regarding him steadily. “We need to get moving,” he tells Dandelion. 

“I might uh, need a little help,” the bard flutters his eyelashes a bit. 

“With what?” Geralt asks. 

“Oh, I’m not sure I’m all the way awake yet,” he drawls. “Perhaps a few more kisses would help?” 

Ciri makes retching sounds behind them as Geralt leans over to oblige. Dandelion makes a rude gesture in her direction that makes her laugh. A few moments later, Geralt pulls away to make sure his things are packed and ready. He also wouldn’t mind stealing some kisses from the sorceress while he waits for the bard to get ready. She chuckles a bit when he pulls her aside to kiss her and ignores Ciri’s complaints about them all being disgusting. 

“It could be worse, Ciri,” she warns, violet eyes dancing in amusement. “It’s just kissing,” she adds knowing full well if they had somewhere safe Ciri could go it would be a lot more than just kissing. She allows Geralt a few more seconds of her time before she pulls away. “Best to start getting the horses ready,” she kisses his cheek and smiles at him. She knows he’s disappointed. There will be plenty of other chances to steal kisses along the road. 

“Go with her,” Geralt tells Ciri. “Kelpie is liable to end up a pile of ashes if you don’t. I’ll be down next,” he tells her. Dandelion is finishing up his own breakfast and working to wake himself up the rest of the way. He’d mostly repacked the night before, seeing no need to make his own life any harder.

Food finished, face and hands washed, he looks at Geralt, who is waiting anxiously for him by the door. “It takes them longer to saddle up than it does us,” he reminds Geralt, thinking that’s what the witcher is upset about. “What’s wrong?” he asks, picking up his saddle bags and doing one last sweep of the room. His lute is already slung ‘round his shoulders. 

“We’re….” Geralt coughs and his throat squeezes. They had fought, and then just ignored it. Which was somewhat unlike Dandelion. Not that Geralt could think of any resolution to the problem other than to ignore it. 

Dandelion strides across the room and hugs Geralt tightly. “We’re alright, my love, we’re alright,” he promises. “We’ve had spats before,” he presses kisses against Geralt’s cheeks and neck. “We will again, but I imagine we’ll always be alright after. How could I stay angry with you?” 

“You’d find a way,” Geralt mumbles. “If you truly wanted to, you’d find a way.” 

“I could never want to,” Dandelion protests. Geralt had never much seemed to care if they got into tiffs before they’d started sleeping together. The bard cups his cheeks and forces Geralt to meet his eyes. “Love is many things Geralt, but the kind of love I have for you is more than anything I feel you could imagine. We’re human, we’ll make mistakes, but Love, Geralt, love does not anger, it does not boast, and it will not allow us to ruin everything over an argument any more than we ever ruined our friendship. Love keeps no record of wrongs.”

Geralt leans in to the touch and kisses the bard, pressing him into the wall. 

“Geralt, you understand I wasn’t even angry with you, right? Perhaps things got heated because of how you avoid dealing with things or answering them. But I wasn’t angry with you. Just, the world has hurt you and I wish I could undo it. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry we’ll butt heads again. Please know how much I love you.” 

The witcher nods, but he has nothing to say. So he kisses Dandelion instead, trying to show he understands, and he agrees. They probably will pick another fight eventually, they’re both criminally stubborn. It takes him a few seconds, but he remembers that they need to leave. And that the women are already downstairs in the stables saddling horses and will not be pleased that he and the bard chose to dally. With a groan of irritation, Geralt pulls away, wishing he didn’t have to. From what he could feel against his hip, the bard isn’t any happier than he is about the situation. 

“Geralt?” 

“Stables,” he reminds his lover.

“Ah, yes. Well then.” He adjusts himself to hide the effect the kissing had on him and smiles as Geralt does the same. He reaches out to hold Geralt’s hand and then remembers the less attention they draw to themselves as they leave, the better. It’s not entirely uncommon for men to bond or be close, or women, but a witcher and one of the most famed poets on the continent would draw raised eyebrows. Especially considering how many songs he’d written about Geralt and Yennefer, it would be even more strange to see the White Wolf and Dandelion together in a more romantic capacity. 

By the time they reach the stables, Ciri is already saddling Pegasus and Yennefer is holding the reins of both her own mount, and Kelpie. Geralt quickly saddles Roach and adjusts her bridle and his packs across her saddle before mounting up. Yennefer gives him a knowing smile and he has the grace to look away in embarrassment. 

The road is relatively quiet and they all feel relieved to be mostly alone. There’s another smaller town about a day away, they’ll see about resupplying and perhaps finding another inn. It might be a stupid risk, but they can always double back around so people think they’d continued on the road and then camp out in the woods. 

Ciri engages Geralt in conversation about various monsters and he’s more than happy to elaborate on different types of ghoul and any other creature that prefers dead flesh to live. Not that they won’t go for live flesh if it happens to pass by. He ends up explaining to her about the necrophages that poisoned him badly and while he does not tell her about running into Visenna or the days of delirium he does impress upon her how dangerous they are. She realizes towards the end of the story that this is how he found her, and how Destiny brought them together. In some ways, this is the start of her story. He had been trying to find her, and had been told she was dead. In almost dying himself, he’d ended up in a cart that took him right to her doorstep. He was her destiny just as much as she was his. 

Dandelion listens quietly, his fingers tapping his pomel as he thinks about the kinds of ballads he would compose, if he could. The songs he’d sing about the Lion Cub and the White Wolf, and the invisible ties of destiny pulling them together across all odds... the hit and miss as they were torn apart and brought back together again, helpless to do anything but follow the paths already paved by destiny with blood, smoke, and fire. 

He’s never heard Geralt tell the full story, and part of him knows something is missing. The one part lacking any kind of depth is the part where the merchant had happened upon a healer and she had fixed Geralt’s leg and then left. Something about it doesn’t ring true, but when he debates asking he sees Yennefer shake her head at him from the corner of his eye. So he stays silent. 

The group stops for lunch as the sun passes its zenith in the sky. Dandelion picks the spot, a somewhat open field they find a few yards inside the treeline. The road isn’t quite visible from where they are, so unless someone is looking for them they should be relatively safe. 

“We’ll need to find water for the horses soon,” Yennefer tells them as they pass around food and drink for their lunch. 

“I can hear some, but I think it’ll line up with the path if we keep going,” Geralt tells her, tilting his head to the side to listen carefully. He’d felt perhaps a little silly to be excited when she’d pulled a small jam jar out of her saddlebag. He knows she’d been amused when he’d decided to sit close to her at the sight of the jar. He was so sick of the travel rations and hardtack and small corncakes that anything to make them taste different was a welcome relief. Not to mention his enhanced senses told him that the jar contained rhubarb and strawberry preserve and he was extremely fond of that particular blend. “I would have thought all of this batch would be gone,” he teases. 

“I didn’t throw all my jam jars at you, back in Vengerberg,” she points out. 

“I don’t know that you ever truly aimed at me in the first place, although the wall did require quite a bit of scrubbing.” 

“I wouldn’t break all the jars of your favorite just to spite you.” 

“Yes, you would.” 

“True enough. I could also choose not to share, if you want to harp upon things we agreed to leave in the past.” 

“Consider it forgotten,” he says agreeably and Yennefer laughs. She kisses his cheek and enjoys the simplicity of sitting with their little family and eating together. 

Dandelion and Ciri are glad to share the jam, too, and Ciri is disgusted all over again when Yennefer and Geralt choose to flirt and kiss over it when it’s returned to them. Dandelion feels amused to watch Geralt behaving much younger and is thankful that he seems to be leaving some of the weight on his shoulders behind. Even if it’s only for a little while. He’s almost boyish as he takes the jar from the sorceress to get a spoonful directly from it before she can stop him. 

Yennefer tries to take it back, and he holds his arm away. 

“And people have complained about my behavior since I could walk,” Ciri huffs. “Cirilla, don’t do this, Cirilla don’t do that. Cirilla don’t put your elbows on the table. Cirilla don’t lick the jam off the tarts, Cirilla don’t lead that boy on. Cirilla get out of the dirt. If only people could see them, they’d never have told me off,” she tells Dandelion, who laughs in surprise. 

“Oh you poor, miserable, abused thing,” he consoles her, trying not to laugh at her while Geralt and Yennefer scuffle. “Go take the jar before it ends up in the dirt,” he tells Ciri. The witcher girl obliges him and snags it from Geralt while he’s distracted by Yennefer kissing him. It had been an attempt to get him to drop his guard, but that energy is now being completely wasted thanks to Ciri. 

Dandelion and Ciri share out some more of the jam before putting the lid back on. At some point, they aren’t sure when, Geralt and Yennefer realize they’ve lost control of the jar and stop fooling around. The bard has a feeling if either of them had felt comfortable leaving Ciri for any length of time, they would have found a quiet place to continue their antics. The bard would be the first to admit he’s not much protection compared to the witcher or the enchantress. It makes sense for one of them to be with the cub at all times. 

Meal finished, since they’re in no real hurry, they choose to laze about a bit. Geralt naps lightly in the grass one arm folded across his chest and the other up as a pillow for his head. Ciri chooses to work on her swordplay, running through the forms she’s learned and working on exercises to strengthen her wrist. 

Yennefer goes over her notes, seeing what she can do about Geralt’s leg. She vaguely wishes she’d paid more attention to healing than she had. She can handle most things, but this seems far more complicated and as far as she can tell there’s no damage to the bone to speak of, and the muscles can’t possibly still be bruised so she’s not sure what the cause is. Dandelion watches Ciri and eventually chooses to sit beside Geralt, just to be close to him. When the witcher’s breathing changes and his eyes flicker beneath the lids, Dandelion gently shakes his shoulder to wake him. He knows what it looks like when the witcher is having a nightmare. He also knows not to lean in because Geralt has a habit of reacting violently to being woken up from bad dreams. 

He sits up and looks around, eyes searching for Ciri. Geralt immediately calms again when he sees her. It’s the same dream, over and over; he can’t get to her. Sometimes he’s trapped in mud, or sinking into sand, or even just water with too strong of a current, but he can never reach her or catch up to her. He stretches out, forcing himself to relax. She’s here with him, they’re both fine. More scarred, more world weary, but alive and together. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” Geralt reassures Dandelion, settling back in the same position he’d been in. Noting the concern on the bard’s face he holds out his hand until Dandelion takes it, and he smiles. Unsure how much longer they can afford to just rest, he tugs the bard down to him, and they settle together comfortably. 

Geralt hadn’t realized he’d dozed back off until Yennefer came over and lightly kicked the sole of his boot to wake him. “We should move on, travel a bit more before nightfall.” 

He nods and kisses Dandelion’s forehead. They’ll need to find running water, too, he knows. 

“Time to go already?” 

“Yes,” Geralt tells him as they get up and brush grass off their clothes. It takes moments to repack their things and mount back up. 

“Seems like we’ve wasted too much time to reach the village tonight, unless we intend to ride in the dark,” Yennefer comments. Geralt looks at her carefully to make sure it’s not a criticism and feels satisfied to know she’s just letting them know they’ll be sleeping rough. 

Night falls and they find a place to camp by a small stream. Geralt is relieved it’s not any kind of river or they would have to worry about travellers. They pitch two tents, since they don’t have one large enough for four. Yennefer and Ciri disappear into one and Geralt and Dandelion into the other. It feels a little too cool to simply sleep in their bedrolls even if Geralt would prefer they were all together. 

Dandelion takes advantage of the relative privacy to kiss Geralt quite a bit. The witcher is absolutely convinced that they’re making too much noise to be subtle and refuses to engage in anything more than kissing. Perhaps if the tents had been further apart, but he knows Dandelion and knows there is absolutely no way the bard could possibly be quiet enough that both Yennefer and Ciri could sleep through it. 

Perhaps if they were rinsing off in the stream, they would be making too much noise to hear Dandelion, and he and Geralt could enjoy some time together. Doubtful, but it’s a thought the witcher has that keeps him warm at night. He sleeps heavily,content to have the bard’s back to his chest. 

**

Dandelion is surprised to wake up alone in the tent. He pokes his head out to the crackle of the fire and to see Geralt carefully cooking fish for breakfast. “They’re still asleep?” he asks softly and Geralt nods. A few minutes later he’s cleaned his face and hands, gone back into the tent and changed clothes, and come out to sit with Geralt by the fire while the fish cook. 

Ciri emerges next, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Yennefer’s awake,” she informs them, but they know it might be a few more minutes before she comes out. “You caught fish.” 

“Hmm.” 

“You’ve never taught me how to fish.” 

“I would have thought you learned on Skellige.” 

“I did, I just thought now to wonder if there was a method witchers used.” 

“Bait the hook, throw the hook into the water, pull the rod, get the fish, cook the fish, eat the fish.” 

“I always forget not to talk to you in the morning,” she tells him dryly. She checks on the horses to make sure they hadn’t cropped too much of the grass and she can tell from the weight of the packs that Geralt had already fed them a measure of grain. They’ve got enough line they can reach the water and roam a tiny bit. Geralt typically didn’t like to hobble Roach, Pegasus was too fat and lazy to need it, and Kelpie wasn’t going anywhere without Ciri. Yennefer’s horse was an unknown quantity but most herd animals preferred to stay together. 

Breakfast passes in relative quiet as they pack up and move on again, travelling until they reach the next town over. 

Geralt and Ciri stay behind in a new campsite while Dandelion and Yennefer go into the town to get more supplies. Yennefer had changed into men’s clothes, and bundled her hair up inside her beret. Geralt hated it and did nothing to disguise his dislike of the situation at all. He understands why they split up, and understands why he and Ciri are staying together and Dandelion and Yennefer are going. He isn’t stupid. It doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

He and Ciri pass the time sparring, both with and without their swords. He’s relieved to find he has full use of his left hand; the dryads of Brokilon hadn’t been sure he would regain it all. When Vilgefortz had cracked his arm and shattered it, and then his femur, and skull, it had been a miracle he’d survived at all. The only residual problems he’s finding is that he can’t chew anything too tough on one side of his jaw, and that of course, his leg aches infernally. At least his head no longer troubles him any more than his left hand does. And as such, when he switches hands again with the sword and presses the attack she screeches in anger and throws herself at him again. 

“Keep your emotions under control!” he snaps at her, deflecting her blade and pirouetting away from her. He twirls his blade in a moulinet before attacking her again, his breathing even and calm. “We’ll stop right now if you don’t take hold of yourself,” he tells her flatly. Immediately she stops breathing raggedly, remembering her training. Before, when things had seemed more hopeful. When she was to train in full to be a witcher at Kaer Morhen. Control over yourself, your breathing, and your feelings. 

They spar until Geralt aches too much to continue, pleased at her progress. He smiles at her and she smiles back and that’s enough of a signal he’s had enough. He gives her some exercises to work on for her wrists and tells her if she gets good enough with her dominant hand he’ll start training her to wield the sword in the other. It’s not a parlor trick but a last ditch effort and not one to waste time on. 

By the time she’s finished her exercises he’s had time to work the balm into his aching leg without her noticing. Or so he’d thought. 

“The stream is cold,” she informs him.

“And?” 

“Perhaps it would do you good to soak that leg in the water, ease some of the ache,” she suggests. She doesn’t back down when he glares at her. “I can’t help but notice when you start to hobble, Geralt,” she tells him pertly. She walks over to where he’s sitting and kisses his cheek. “I know you’d rather one of the others had stayed with you, alone,” she tells him with a faint blush. 

“That’s not true,” he tells her. “I would never trade time with you for… that,” he says delicately, clearing his throat. 

She giggles, pleased by his answer, and pleased he’d taken time to train with her. “You really should soak that leg,” she tells him. 

“And I suppose I’ll expect you to join me, you little brat? Since it’s so good for aching muscles? I can see how you’re trembling and sore.” 

“Call me brat again and I’ll dump you in myself!”

“I should like to see you try!” he laughed. Then it occurred to him he could dump her in. And so he did, despite her howls of protest and kicking and punching. She wasn’t flailing hard, considering she didn’t want to hurt him, just discourage him. Needless to say, it did not work, and soon enough they were both soaked in the chilly, icy water. 

His entire lower body is soon numb enough he wonders if he’ll have legs or manhood left when he crawls out from the bank. When she makes as if to climb out he drags her back in for a second, determined to forestall future conversations about him freezing his balls off in a stream from happening ever again. “I thought this would have healing benefits, and yet here you are trying to escape?”

Her teeth chattering and face flushed, she looks at him. “Does your leg hurt as bad?” 

“I can’t feel it at all,” he tells her, before boosting her up the small embankment so she can get out easier. She holds out her hands once she’s on the bank in a spot she thinks she won’t go down if she helps him out. He makes use of her and a luckily placed root to haul himself out. They shiver together as they gather up firewood and strip out of soaking outer garments. 

Geralt bundles her into her cloak before tugging his on and huddling up with her by the flames. Their clothes lie propped on a rock he’d drug over to the fire so that they’ll dry quicker. 

“Perhaps with nowhere to go and no proper way to dry off, it will have less benefit than I’d thought,” Ciri admits, and Geralt’s so startled he bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she tells him. 

“I’m not.” 

“Then I suppose there was no harm done.” 

“I suppose not.” 

“Yennefer is going to think we did something stupid when she gets back.” 

“Then perhaps she shouldn’t have left us alone and unsupervised,” Geralt stretches out a little. He will take longer to warm than she will, with his heartbeat being four times slower. 

“Are you still cold?” she asks, noticing he’s still shivering lightly. She’d started to warm up fairly quickly, between the fire and his arm around her it hadn’t been too bad. She’s dry enough she should be able to pull on a spare change of clothes. “Here, let me get my clothes, and get some for you, don’t leave the fire,” she tells him. 

He wonders when she became a young woman, instead of just a little girl. Even if sometimes the little girl makes an appearance more often than she should. His heart aches, none of it should have happened the way it did. He should have taken her to Kaer Morhen and the Temple of Melitele and then back to the keep. Triss had told him not to isolate her. He wouldn’t have, not forever. She would have finished her training and they would have travelled together. No one would think anything of a witcher and his apprentice. But no, she’d had magic and needed training to manage it so it didn’t kill her. What choice had he had? He should have run from Vilgefortz, should have run up the stairs after Ciri and leapt through that portal with her. 

When she comes back with his spare shirt and pants, he pulls them on gratefully beneath his cloak. Now isn’t the time to think about what could have been, or should have been. There was no changing the past now. At least he had them all with him again, it would turn out alright. Ciri pushes into his arms and against his chest wrapping her arms around his middle as she snuggles her head into his chest. Her hair is still damp, but he can’t get much colder than he is. And her body is warm. She flares her cloak around them both as best she can and smiles when he wraps his arms around her, holding his cloak tightly closed around them. 

By the time he’s finally warm, she’s sweating slightly, but she knows if she moves he’ll wake up. He’d fallen asleep, chin to his chest not that long ago. He’d been awfully tired as of late, and she saw no reason to disturb him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited to get to post this. I was told by a friend the fic was too depressing. So the next chapter is p much just fluff I started editing in because it wouldn't hurt the storyline. And should hopefully lighten it up. And that will need beta, and then I think the next 7 chapters? are already edited. So. Ta-da. Depending on how much writer's block I have with the fluff, and how much free time my wonderful betas have, that should go up next week? I can hope? Annnd then I should be able to update weekly until I hit part 2. Which... has 5 full chapters /10-12? and... no editing done. :D Everything is a mess. 
> 
> Anyway. To anyone who subscribed/bookmarked and is now getting an update, I hope you enjoyed. To new readers, I also hope you enjoyed. I am very lucky to have people willing to help me with this fic.


	8. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> Heavy discussions around consent.  
> Implications Geralt isn't really clear on what all enthusiastic consent is.  
> (no, Dandelion and Yennefer are not part of this problem in this fic, ever, at any point.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ruusverd, I am pretty sure I've spelled your username wrong a bunch now. So, I'm sorry.  
> I appreciate your help pointing out some weird things I wrote in my head that didn't make it into the fic. The like, 3 or 4 places you were like what the hell? Well. I guess I just stopped typing mid sentence. 'Cause I'm special like that. I appreciate you. 
> 
> Thanks to the people who comment. I appreciate it a lot.

When Yennefer and Dandelion return, Geralt wakes and Ciri slips free of his embrace. She helps them unsaddle their horses and picket them alongside Kelpie and Roach. Yennefer watches as Geralt gets up stiffly, and her violet eyes look around the small copse. The fire is well fed, perhaps a larger blaze than he might normally build. The rock hadn’t been there before, and two sets of clothing are laid out on it. They don’t quite fit, sleeves and legs dangling off the edges and parts overlapping. They look mostly dry. His hair has that look it gets when he hasn’t brushed it out after it gets wet. Ciri looks a little bedraggled, too, but considerably more chipper. 

“No, don’t touch that,” she reminds the bard as he settles with a wicker basket by the fire. “That’s not for you, not all of it. The sweet buns are for Geralt.” She can’t help but smile when her lover perks up considerably at her words. “They might still be warm, provided he hasn’t let all the heat out rummaging around in there. I found two.” 

He descends hastily upon the wicker basket, ignoring the bard’s attempts to slap his hands away as he pulls two small rounds of bread coated in cinnamon and sugar from the handkerchief wrapping up all the baked goods. Hungry, he holds back from devouring the treat, forcing himself to savor them. It’s rare to even find breads made like this. 

Ciri giggles at the picture he makes, both hands full, eyes closed in bliss as he eats the rolls. 

“Leave him be,” Yennefer tells her, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Get something to eat. Did you both fall into the stream training?” she asks. 

“No, I suggested the cold water would be good for his leg, it was bothering him. I then told him I’d dump him in for his own good. So he dumped me in, instead.” 

“And decided to come in after you?” 

“Well, he dumped us both.” 

Dandelion allows her to dig through the basket as she pleases, smiling at her. “I’ve eaten, take what you want. Some of this is for tomorrow, though, so try not to eat it all, or let Geralt. We have other things for dinner.” He sets the basket down and sits at Geralt’s side, gently rubbing his back. Initially, Geralt moves one of the pastries closer to his chest, expecting some kind of attempt to take them, before he opens his eyes and realizes Dandelion just wants to be near him. He leans in contentedly, carefully licking his fingers clean of any lingering sugar before starting the second bun. 

“You can be such a simple creature,” Dandelion teases him, kissing his cheek. “A warm place to sleep, a full belly, and you’re easily pleased.” 

“Not all of us can demand everything, whether we have need of it or not,” Geralt tells him, tearing himself away from the confection long enough to form a rational thought. It’s been years since he’s eaten one of these, and he’d determined he wasn’t going to waste any of the time eating one with unpleasantness such as thinking. 

Yennefer settles next to him on his other side. She can tell from how he’s moving he’s warm enough, but all the same she sees no reason not to be close to him. Ciri had helped herself to a few jam tarts and a doughnut before sitting across the fire from them to eat. She gently tips Geralt’s chin up and over so he’s looking at her and she smiles at him. “You’ve got sugar on your face,” she tells him. Before he can reach up to brush it off, she teasingly licks his cheek and laughs when she catches his thought about mutations and blushing. “I’ve almost got it all,” she tells him, kissing his other cheek, and then finally his lips. He tastes of cinnamon. 

“We should get the tents pitched,” Dandelion says when the witcher and sorceress pull apart. “At least, the tents people can sleep in,” he smiles widely. 

“As if you haven’t pitched your own,” Yennefer sniffs delicately. 

“Ciri, help us set up the camp,” Geralt tells her, getting up with a soft groan. He’s glad he has his cloak on because it hides exactly what Dandelion had been mocking him for. Not that the affliction lasts long. He’s tired, and the prospect of dealing with the tentpoles doesn’t much appeal to him. 

In short order both tents are up, bedrolls are inside, and Geralt resists the urge to crawl into his. They haven’t eaten dinner yet, the sun isn’t even properly setting. It’s too early to be this worn out. Yennefer is warming cider over the fire and he sniffs appreciatively. Clove, cardamom, maybe, definitely allspice, and the warm smell of apples. The hot drink goes down easily when she passes him a cup and he settles next to her again, leaning into her. 

“I’m tired, Yen,” he tells her. 

“We’re all tired, Geralt,” she informs him dryly. 

“No, not like that,” he protests sleepily.

“Then take a nap, I don’t see what good telling me is supposed to do.” 

“It doesn’t feel right,” he adds grumpily, not sure why she isn’t more alarmed. He doesn’t need as much sleep as a normal man. He’s used to living rough on the road. There’s no reason for this. 

“Perhaps you’ve been making stupid choices that prevent you from getting enough rest. Such as dunking yourself in an icy stream after spending fuck knows how much time training with Ciri?” 

He snorts in irritation and hands her the now-empty cup back before moving to sit with Dandelion in hopes of finding a more sympathetic ear. The bard is happy to stroke his hair and allow him to curl up close. Ciri had chosen to work on her wrist exercises again after making sure the camp was properly ready. Geralt falls asleep under Dandelion’s sympathetic ministrations and dozes pleasantly until the bard wakes him for dinner. 

Ciri had taken over cooking since Yennefer preferred not to. Unaided she’d caught some more fresh fish and had added them to a small pot with water and fresh vegetables and seasoning over the fire. It’s not much of a stew, being far too thick, but the pot wasn’t big enough to hold more water, and what mattered was the food was hot, cooked the whole way through, and had some flavor to it. Dandelion helps ladle out portions of the food and Geralt kisses Ciri’s forehead in thanks. They sit together as they eat, blowing on the food to cool it in companionable silence. 

Dandelion takes empty bowls from them when they’re done, amused to find both the witcher and his cub licking out the insides after having licked the spoons clean. He’ll rinse them in the river and scour them out with sand before returning them. “Did you not get enough, I think there’s a bit more,” he teases. 

“I’m alright,” Geralt says. Unless there really is more and Ciri doesn’t want it. He looks at her and she shakes her head. He gets up to investigate. When no one else wants the leftovers in the pot he recovers his spoon from the bard and takes the pot to sit back down and finish it off. He shivers involuntarily when Dandelion runs a hand lightly down his spine. It feels good and he leans into it. Amused, the bard tenses his hand a little, lightly scratching up and down his witcher’s back. When Geralt finishes eating Dandelion takes the small pot and heads to the stream to wash their dishes. 

“I am going to take Ciri to feel out some ley lines,” Yennefer tells Geralt idly. “We’ll try and stay within earshot of you, so you don’t get too concerned. They’re close. But I doubt we’ll be able to hear you if you’re the one making the noise. If the camp is attacked-” she passes him a small vial -” throw this onto the fire. It’ll send up a flare that will warn us. We will not come for you and Dandelion,” she tells him quietly. Ciri isn’t listening, busy cleaning her sword. “I will take her somewhere safe, and I expect you to do the same.” 

“I know,” he tells her quietly, taking the vial. It’s what they had talked about months ago, when they were still searching for the girl. Split up and run. Keep Ciri away from Nilfgaard at all costs. Geralt was ready to die for it. Dandelion had said he would prefer not to, but would die for her, too. Yennefer had survived many unpleasant things and felt she would survive more. What she could not survive would be the loss of her daughter. She did not truly believe anyone could kill Geralt anyway and was far less worried about losing him in a fight. If he knew Ciri was safe he would go to ground and take the bard with him. They would be fine. She would create a kestrel and find him again, and they would reunite. 

Geralt presses a kiss to her cheek and she turns her face to kiss him properly. She knows he would take her right there by the fire if not for Ciri just a few feet away. When she’s left the fire with their daughter, she hopes he’ll take advantage of that time to fool around with the bard. He could use the release. She lightly runs a hand up the inside of his leg, and he shivers. 

“Yen.” 

“Yes?” she asks him cheekily, kissing under his jaw. “You’ll be alone soon enough. And you’ll hear when we’re coming back,” she reminds him. She lightly draws circles higher and higher up the inside of his thigh and he makes a soft wheezing sound in protest. “Think of me while you touch yourself,” she tells him quietly, and kisses his cheek before standing up. With her normal human ears she can hear Dandelion approaching and feels it’s safe to take Ciri with her. “Ciri, come along. We might be able to get some of your magic back. Or at least see if you can still have visions. Something to help us keep ahead of the armies.” 

“Coming.” 

“Bring the sword, you never know.” 

“Yes, Yennefer.” 

She gives Geralt a look that makes his shirt feel too small and he leans forward to hide his arousal. His head snaps around when Dandelion walks out of the treeline and steps on a twig. 

“Easy,” the bard holds his hands up to show all he’s armed with is their dinner dishes. Which he then lays out by the fire so they’ll dry and be ready to repack as quickly as possible. “Happy to see me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Geralt rolls his eyes in response but leans in closer to the bard. He has a quick internal debate with himself about the best methods for all of this. If they go into the tent and are surprised, he might not get the vial into the fire. If they take too long and Yennefer and Ciri head back, they will lose valuable time scrambling into the tent. He doesn’t hear anyone around them, and as Yennefer promised he can still barely hear her and Ciri. When his awareness of them doesn’t grow fainter, he has a feeling they’ve stopped moving. “They won’t be back for a bit,” he shrugs. 

“Oh, I see. So, we have limited time, is what you’re telling me,” Dandelion smiles and slips between Geralt’s legs to press their hips together and kiss him soundly. 

“We won’t have much time to clean up after, either,” Geralt tells him with a hint of concern. 

“Handkerchiefs should help us with that.” The bard has already worked the laces of Geralt’s pants open, “Any other concerns I should address before we start?” 

“That’s all I can think of, currently,” Geralt points out, already struggling to tear his focus away from the bard’s fingers down the front of his pants. “Tent, let’s go in the tent,” he protests, feeling his hips shudder forward of their own volition. 

“Hurry up and carry me then, I’ve got you how I like you,” Dandelion teases him, kissing up the side of his neck. Geralt groans in irritation and does as Dandelion tells him, dragging the other man up by his knees. His legs shake as he walks because he can barely concentrate. 

“Don’t make me drop you,” he whispers, almost embarrassed. 

“In this case, if you did, I wouldn’t be able to be angry. I’d just have to make sure I did whatever I’d done, again, rather a lot of times, but when you were seated or lying down.” 

They make it into the tent without much incident, Geralt working Dandelion’s shirt halfway up his chest out of his way and then dragging his pants off. They move against each other for a little while, needing the physicality of it, needing to be able to kiss and touch each other without letting up. 

“I’m afraid this will be somewhat dismally short,” Dandelion murmurs against Geralt’s skin as the witcher rubs their bodies against each other. “If you don’t slow down.” 

“That was the point,” Geralt offers, and lets out a little gasp when the bard reaches between them to touch far lower than he had been. “I don’t know when they’re coming back,” he reminds the other man. 

“Right then,” Dandelion agrees easily enough. They’d been wanting each other for quite some time. He wouldn’t complain. They’d have time again. He knows what Geralt likes and knows what will tip him over the edge as quickly as possible. He quickly puts one hand in the witcher’s hair to gently grip it, and to occasionally do his best to run his fingers through it before gripping Geralt by the back of the neck and pulling his face in closer. He’s already so near the edge it doesn’t take much more than a kiss at the hollow of his throat to send him falling. 

Geralt doesn’t need much longer before pleasure swamps him, running up his spine and making his muscles weak. “Fuck,” he comments as he flops down beside his lover. Normally he would have had no issue dropping himself down onto Dandelion directly, heedless of the mess. He’s somewhat sure he can hear Yennefer and Ciri’s voices getting a bit louder, and he doesn’t have time to clean himself up and change clothes. 

“Don’t go out just yet,” Dandelion catches him by the wrist when he starts to shift to get up. The bard mops himself up quickly and discards the fabric to the side of their bedrolls. He’ll get to it in the morning. He grabs another square of fabric and dampens it with water from the canteen he likes to keep by him at all times and hooks Geralt under the knee. “This will be a bit cold, still,” he apologizes and wipes sweat from Geralt’s face and neck, their skin warming the water on the fabric before he quickly passes it over Geralt’s groin. 

Almost embarrassed when he twitches at the touch, half wishing they could go again. The bard was right, that had been short. But he had needed it. Badly. He presses his lips to Dandelion’s in thanks. 

“Go’n, get out there and straighten out your hair some. You can say I retired early if you want.” 

“It’s too early to sleep,” Geralt protests. 

“Yennefer will know exactly what happened no matter what we do, but Ciri doesn’t need to. I’ll work on my music in here.” 

“With no lights? Are you...do you not want to be out here with me when they come back?” 

“No, no, love, that’s not it. I’m a bigger mess than you, that’s all. It’ll take me longer to clean up.” He’s done his best to wipe their mess out of the hair covering his torso, but he’s not sure he’ll have gotten it all out. Not without a bath. “Here, if you can get to the water and back before they do, rinse out the old kerchiefs and bring them back for me, alright?” 

Geralt nods and grabs them up, fixing his breeches one handed as he exits the tent. He doesn’t sense anything. No jingle of tack, no horses, no footsteps other than those of the women. Relieved, he hurries to the water, rinses the handkerchiefs as quickly as possible, squeezes them out, and rushes back to the tent. 

Dandelion manages to make himself presentable in time, and they’re both barely settled by the fire by the time Ciri and Yennefer walk back into the light of the flames. Geralt, feeling very much like he had as a boy when he’d narrowly escaped punishment, tries not to laugh. The stress of it makes his shoulders shake anyway, and he rubs at his face. Dandelion notices him starting to lose his composure and starts laughing, which sets Geralt off, too. 

“What’s so funny?” Ciri asks, looking over her clothes and touching her hair. 

“Nothing to do with us,” Yennefer assures her, hiding a smile. “Just enjoy them being silly. It’s hard enough to find time for small joys.” She kisses the top of Ciri’s head and hugs her tightly for a moment. “Get ready to rest, we’ve had a long day.” 

Ciri goes into the tent first, unsurprised to see Yennefer go over to Geralt. She’ll say goodnight to him before she goes to sleep. 

Geralt glances up at the sorceress with a smile, the laughter having wound down to the occasional burst of chuckles. She sits at his side for a few moments, stroking a lock of hair back from his face. He kisses her cheek and nuzzles her, seeking a few moments of closeness with her. While she would have liked to have had a few hurried moments in a tent with him, too, she doesn’t begrudge them any. He seems better. The grueling pace and constant fear had worn them all down. 

“I love you,” he tells her simply, meeting her eyes. She smiles, and says it back without hesitation. She watches as Dandelion gets up to give them a few moments, shifting around some of their things. 

She kisses Geralt gently, just to be close, just to touch, just for a little, just to have him to herself for a few moments. He tangles his fingers in her hair, deeply content. His little family is safe, and with him. He isn’t alone. Yennefer breaks away first, gently smoothing his hair one last time. “I need to rest,” she tells him, kissing his cheek. 

He nods, an ache in his chest. The weather is cooling and he works to bank the fire as Dandelion does a final check of the campsite before crawling into their tent. Geralt looks around the small clearing, listening for anything other than the usual wildlife sounds. He hears nothing. Smells nothing other than the usual things. 

With nothing else to do, he makes one last round past the horses to affectionately give Roach a good scratch under her jaw and along her cheek before crawling into the tent. Dandelion has moved things around so it will be easy for Geralt to join him, and the witcher smiles fondly in appreciation. 

** 

They break camp first thing in the morning, eating the leftover pastries for breakfast. After a few hours of riding Geralt gets noticeably tenser, and he dismounts and hands his reins to Yennefer before disappearing into the brush.

“Bad food?” Dandelion asks in concern.

“No, he thinks he’s noticed something.” She cranes her neck to look around her mount, there’s plenty of hoofprints all over, but it’s a well-traveled road. Rickety cart tracks, footprints, hoofprints, even what might very well be dog prints, too. “You forget he can’t really get sick from what he eats or drinks. Not that he’d eat spoiled food, he can smell it long before it’s fully turned.” He had on several occasions turned his nose up to different types of seafood that should have been relatively fresh. He had not been wrong to do so, as others had found out. Yennefer had learned after the first time to reject the same things he did. Unless she just happened to know it was a food he preferred not to eat.

Geralt comes back to them silently, holding out a few things in his hands to Yennefer. She looks them over and nods. Dandelion cranes to look, annoyed he isn’t being included.

“What’s that?” Ciri asks, also protesting being ignored.

“Signs of soldiers,” Yennefer explains. “Be quiet so we can think.”

“We’ll need to split up,” Geralt says in a hoarse voice. It feels like he’s having his heart ripped in two. “You’ll have to take her.”

“No, Geralt, she should stay with you.”

“No, you can portal her out of danger if it becomes necessary. I can lay a false trail better, and I have less aura to trace. The bard and I can play stupid. They know you trained her and oversaw her in the Temple. As far as they know I’ve never been near her. Not really. Not until the Tower fell.”

“Geralt.”

“I know.”

“I hate this.”

“And I don’t?”

Yennefer leans into kiss him soundly for a few moments, and he hugs her to him tightly. “I love you,” she reminds him.

“I love you, too,” he tells her, throat squeezing. He kisses her again before stepping over to Ciri, watching Kelpie from the corner of his eye in case she tries to bite him. He lightly grips her ankle in the stirrup, finding he has no words for her.

“What is happening?” she asks him. “I couldn’t hear everything; did you say split up?” her voice rises in pitch to almost a scream. He frowns, as if this isn’t hard enough without some sort of awful emotional display.

“Do as Yennefer says the minute she says it. Like we taught you in the Keep, don’t shame me,” he tells her, and hates himself. This isn’t the way to do this. He steps back from Kelpie, allowing her to dismount. He hugs her tightly to him, kissing the side of her head and feeling tears soak into his shirt. “We’ll be together soon. Yennefer and I have it worked out. I know how to find her. And you.” He can barely force another word out, but he knows it’s important. “People linked by destiny will always find each other,” he promises.

“I love you, Geralt. Find me soon.”

“I will. I promise,” he reassures her, kissing the top of her head.

“Mount up, Ciri,” Yennefer says after a few moments of looking around, her horse fractious under her, sensing her mood. “We have to go.”

Ciri chokes back a sob and Geralt cups her cheek. “Control, Ciri. It’s all about control. Weep when it’s safe. Go now, we’ll hide your trail.” He looks back at Dandelion. “Unless you’d prefer to go with them?” he asks, half realizing no one had asked the bard what he’d like.

“No, someone should stay with you in case you’re injured. And I know to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of a fight. Don’t worry on my account. I’ll be fine.” He smiles when Ciri gives him a hug and kisses her cheek before watching her mount back up on her horse. “Be safe, Ciri.”

“I will,” she says firmly, drying her eyes. There’s no reason to cry at all, they’ll be fine and reunited as soon as possible. She will do Geralt proud.

**

  
Split up from Ciri and Yennefer, he and Dandelion have done their best to leave a false trail for Nilfgaard. They've managed to escape all the soldiers trailing them, for all that Geralt had acquired a new scar or two thanks to Nilfgaard’s finest. They're a day away from their rendezvous point, and Geralt is chafing at the delay. 

Dandelion curls up at his side, huddling close. It's chilly even with the fire. He presses kisses over Geralt's cheek and neck, trying to distract him from his worries. "Yennefer is a very capable murderer, Geralt. She'll keep Ciri safe." 

"I lost her the last time we split up. We should never have done it again," he says uneasily, shifting to try and get comfortable, pulling away from Dandelion's affections. He doesn't deserve comfort until he knows his… until he knows she's safe. He can’t focus on anything other than worrying about his cub right now. And how vile he is that he let Yennefer take her again, knowing the risks. He’s missing half his heart.

"Geralt, we can't travel anymore tonight, the horses are exhausted." He teases the laces on the witcher's clothes. "And you need to rest some, too, so you don't fall off Roach tomorrow." 

"Hmm," Geralt turns away, effectively shutting down the troubadour's attempts to distract him. He tugs the laces tight on his shirt again, unsure how sex is going to help him rest. Not that he feels like pointing that out to the insouciant bard. 

"I thought," Dandelion says softly, pulling away, "that things might be different now. I'm sorry, Geralt." He does his best to mask the hurt in his voice. It’s not exactly easy. He’s wanted Geralt for years, and he’d thought months ago when they started their journey to find Ciri that it had changed everything. 

He twists back to look at the bard, who is absolutely miserable. "Hmm?" He's speechless. Things are very different now. He knows where Ciri is, or he did. He’s had her with him, he has Yennefer too, more than ever it feels. And he has Dandelion in new ways. He loves the way the bard kisses him, and the way he and Yennefer work together in bed. 

"I thought when Yennefer… I thought perhaps you… but I see now it was for her wasn't it? I'm sorry then. I wouldn't have been part of it." 

"What are you talking about?" Geralt asks, sitting up. He faces the bard, head tilted slightly and brow crinkled in concern. 

"We've been closer, but I see it's only when Yennefer is around. I'm sorry I took it as something you wanted on your own. I don't force my affections on people." 

"That's all you've done," Geralt counters. "But I've never minded." He glances at the bard, breathing deeply. "I … there's no reason for anything right now."

"What?" Dandelion stares at him, his scent picking up hints of anger. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, right now. But I don’t think I can give it.” 

“I think you know exactly what I want, and you’re not making much sense. Not that I think I want it anymore.” 

With a shake of his head to clear it, he knows he’s just making a mess of things. "You know I'm just a simple Witcher, no good with words. Let me… let me try and explain. But grant me some patience. I don't make my living writing words and feelings. And it's not as if I have feelings, as you know." 

The bard snorts. “Fine, I will grant you some patience. But only because...because I…” _‘Because I love you.’_ He looks down at his hands, frustrated. Geralt has to have some feelings. Otherwise he wouldn't get annoyed so easily. Nor would he love so obviously and so deeply. “I think it’s time you stopped pretending you don’t feel, Geralt.” 

“The mutations change us, bard,” he says, because he has to believe it somewhat. Otherwise why does he do the things he does? Why does he deny himself what he wants so badly all the time, if he feels just like any other human? And if he feels like a human does, why do other humans hate him so much? No, he must be different, he must be ‘other.’ He’s a mutation, and a freak, and unluckily enough he’d survived the trials. Or luckily. Some days he really isn’t sure. Not that he thinks he’d undo any of it. If he was human he would have died long before Dandelion walked the continent, Ciri, too. And he never would have met Yennefer. 

Perhaps if he’d been left to live a normal life, he would have found a simple love, and a simple job, and raised children with his wife. He would have died after a normal lifespan, and his only scars would have been given to him by his trade. 

“I know that they do, they make you stronger, your eyes are like cats’ eyes, I see that. The stress of it bleached the hair on your head,” Dandelion points out. “Although not the rest of your hair, I’ve always wondered why that was.” 

Geralt simply shrugs, he’s never contemplated why it’s only the hair on his scalp that changed. No one’s ever much said anything about his hair either way unless it’s been filthy. And usually even then, no one cares other than to be mocking or callous. Disgusting witcher, covered in guts and filth, good thing he isn’t human so he doesn’t mind. Vile creature that he is, no human would tolerate that, no matter the payout. “I'm not human, anymore, Dandelion.” 

“Oh, absolute bullshit, Geralt. You get hurt, you bleed, you hunger, you eat, you lust, you fuck, you tire, you sleep, just like any other human.” 

“Or monster.” 

“You care for Ciri like she was from your own flesh and blood.” 

“She’s my responsibility.”

“And you love her.” 

Geralt just stares at him, helpless. To deny loving Ciri feels like it would be worse than drowning, and he’s told Yennefer he loves her. How hard can it be to admit to loving another person? He’s admitted to having friends and feeling friendship. Openly, and more than once. But can he truly feel love? Was Istredd wrong all those years ago? “Dandelion…” His voice breaks, “Why are you asking me these things?” 

“Because I love you!” the bard snaps, hating that he’s hurt Geralt. He’s never backed down before, and he doesn’t intend to start now. They’re either together even without Yennefer, or they aren’t together at all. He rubs at his eyes brusquely, irritated that he’s getting upset at all. 

“Dandelion, I… You’re my best friend,” he says pitifully. “Of course… I…” Why can he say it to Yennefer, and no one else? Is it because of Istredd, Geralt wonders, sick to his stomach? Just leftover feelings that don’t truly exist anymore, can he tell Yennefer because it would hurt her less if Istredd was right? It would poison all he has with Dandelion, good and bad. He tries to force out words, throat and jaw working, but no sound coming out. “I don’t know, I don’t know what I feel or don’t feel, I don’t know what’s real or what’s been taken from me, I,” his jaw clenches and his throat squeezes. All he can do is hold out a hand in supplication to the bard. 

Dandelion looks at him and sees the genuine pain in the witcher’s eyes. He takes Geralt’s hand without hesitation, holding it and feeling it tremble. 

“I don’t know what to say to you that’s true, instead of just what I would like to be true. I should hate myself forever if I lied to you or betrayed you.” 

“Hate is a feeling Geralt. Like, wanting, all of those are feelings. Tell me what you think you feel right now, for me, and I won’t hold it against you if later it isn’t true anymore.” 

Geralt’s lip trembles, and he clenches his jaw again, before opening his mouth and then shutting it with a grimace. “Dandelion,” he whispers miserably. “I... I would die for you, I would take any injuries, I would do whatever it took to keep you safe.” He licks his lip, trying to find the words, because it seems inadequate to just say ‘I love you’ after all that. But what else is there to be said? What else does the bard want to hear but: “I love you,” he finally forces out. Nothing else will come, and nothing else makes any sense to say. Some part of him hates that he might just be saying it to keep the bard close. His life would be dimmer without the troubadour at his side. Quieter, and far less friendly. His throat works for a few more seconds, and he thinks he might be sick. Witchers don’t have feelings. Witchers aren’t made for anything other than killing monsters until they slow down and die. They aren’t made to love. “If this is what you want,” he mumbles, and starts unlacing his pants. 

“What? No, I mean, I have, but not right now, not like this. Geralt, stop it.” 

The witcher’s hands freeze on the laces, and he stares at the bard in confusion. “Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation in the first place? If I’d known turning you down would upset you so much, I wouldn’t have.” 

“What, Geralt, no,” Dandelion splutters. “If you didn’t want to do it, then you shouldn’t have done, we don’t have to now, either.” 

“It’s fine,” Geralt hasn’t started working on his clothes again, but he’s not sure what to do. “If it’s what will please you, then I’ll do it.” 

“Oh, oh no, absolutely not!” Dandelion tells him, eyes rounding in horror. 

“I -you said you wanted, I don’t understand.” 

“You? Can you hear yourself?! Can you bloody well -Geralt! I-I-it’s not about _me_ it’s about us! If you don’t, do you have any idea? Does Yennefer know-I just, what!?” The bard backs up some, his heart breaking in a thousand different ways. “Did you, earlier, did you want that at all?” 

Geralt looks at him across the fire, expression inscrutable. “Yennefer’s never asked me to do anything I didn’t want to. Or was unwilling to.” 

“Did you or did you not want to be with both of us, that time by the fire?” 

“I did,” Geralt says slowly. “Yennefer knew before I did, but I did.” 

“And the time a bit ago now, in the tents? You were aroused before I even got back did she…did she tell you, did she…was it her idea?”

“She suggested something, but I wasn’t unwilling. I enjoy being with you.” Geralt tilts his head in confusion. Why would any of this be upsetting? “Frankly, she suggested something slightly different than what happened.” She had recommended he touch himself.

“I think I might be sick,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face and rumpling his hair. “Oh gods, Geralt.” 

“What’s wrong, bard?” Geralt drops his hands, and when he tries to get closer to Dandelion, it hurts him to see the other man move back. 

“Are you even capable of understanding?” He asks in horror. “Oh, Melitele’s hoary tits, Geralt, oh, this is horrid.” 

“I don’t-did you not want me?” he asks, confused. “I thought, you were mad at me, because I didn’t want to fuck. What… what just happened?” 

“I love you, Geralt. I do. This isn’t about that, this is me coming to understand that all the times you don’t say anything, you aren’t saying yes, you’re probably saying no, and people aren’t hearing you. _I’m_ not hearing you. I’m learning you are even more horrible at expressing yourself than I previously thought. So, right this minute, no, I don’t want you. Not like that. I very much wish you could understand, for your own sake, why that’s so horrible. That you don’t… you don’t speak up, do you? You could have hated it, you could have hated having me inside you and you wouldn’t have said anything because you think that’s what you have to do?” 

“It didn’t matter, you weren’t hurting me. I liked it, I wanted you.” 

“That’s, see half of that is fine. I would never hurt you on purpose, especially not during sex. And then, it did matter. It did matter very much. I’m relieved to know you wanted me and enjoyed the experience! How many people Geralt? How many people have you slept with who made you do things you didn’t want to?” 

When the witcher won’t meet his gaze, Dandelion tries not to vomit. 

“How many people have you had sex with that you didn’t want to?” He can’t believe he’s asking; no answer would make him happy. “Gods, Geralt. Is it usually a transaction for you? Just do something because humans do it? Or -” 

“Do you ask all your whores this, too?” 

“What? Geralt, you’re not a prosti- have you had sex for money?” 

“Not money,” Geralt shrugs uncomfortably. He’s done things, plenty of things he did not want to do if it meant saving a life. He had said yes, the transaction was done. “It’s an exchange, everyone gets what they want.” 

“No! No, they do not! Even whores have limits! They’re allowed to say no, or their madame or master should be out to stop you if you go too far! There’s limits! Do you even know yours? Do you even truly know what you want? Would you say it? Would you tell me to stop if I was making you uncomfortable?” 

“You’re making me uncomfortable, and I’d like you to stop,” Geralt tells him weakly. 

“Not about this, if I had my cock in you, would you say anything, or would you just grit your teeth and bear it?!” 

“You’re crying,” Geralt tells him, decidedly confused. 

“I suppose that I am, but that doesn’t answer my question, my love.” 

“You wouldn’t hurt me, not on purpose. So, if it was an accident, I’ll heal. Why bother? It’s just easier to let you take your pleasure.” 

“I’m going to vomit, don’t touch me,” the bard wards him off. “Sweet Melitele, I could have... Does… Does Yennefer know you’re like this?” 

“She reads minds, Dandelion. She can’t help it, especially when we’re...close.” 

“So, she stops if something bothers you without you ever having to say anything?” 

“She’s never even started to do anything that bothered me,” he shrugs. She’s picked some uncomfortable places to do the deed, but it had caused him no harm and worse things had happened to him. Thank Melitele they’d finally broken that damned unicorn. 

“She’s never had to see this firsthand, has she? She has no idea what you’re willing to do?” 

“She knows. When I first met her, I offered myself to her, for however long she wanted in whatever capacity. To save you.” 

“Oh god, what happened?”

“We just talked,” Geralt shrugged. “Rare to have that, I thought perhaps I’d sold myself into a lifetime of slavery. And then when she said one night, I wasn’t sure what...just conversation. Was all she wanted.” Then of course, she had sent him to do her dirty work under the influence of a spell.

“You, I can’t sleep with you knowing that you can’t say ‘no’.”

“I say ‘no’ all the time, you just don’t listen.” 

“Okay, I admit some of that’s wrong of me, but it’s not about sexual things, Geralt. That’s very different. You know that. Your first kill was a rapist, you told me. You were drunk, so perhaps you fudged the details, but you told me. I’ve seen you kill thirteen men, by yourself, for busying themselves with a farm girl no one else would have tried to help. You have to know it’s wrong or it wouldn’t bother-oh. Oh I see. Oh, oh I’m going to be sick.” 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Geralt says helplessly. 

“It’s not, oh it’s not like that, love, it’s not,” Dandelion promises. “You won’t make the connection and if I do it, you’ll just get mad. But I promise, I will try and listen better when you say ‘no’. For any reason. I’m so sorry.” 

“It, no one much listens but Ciri. It doesn’t seem to much matter.” 

“Oh, but it should. We’ve done wrong, there. Oh Geralt, I’m sorry. I will try and listen better, I will try and do better. I can’t promise to not push these conversations with you, they have to be had. But in other ways, I can do better in other ways, I promise.” 

“I forgive you.” 

“Oh, don’t say that, you have no idea what I’m even sorry for. Not really. When you understand, say it when you understand and it’ll mean something.” 

“I wish you weren’t odd right now,” Geralt tells him uneasily.

“I’m always odd, Geralt, it’s part of my charm. I should very much like to hug you even though you won’t understand why.” 

“You’ve never really asked before,” Geralt shrugs. 

“And I see that was wrong, I had no idea… may I? I don’t know if it will comfort or reassure you, but I’d like it to.” 

“I don’t...yes, of course you can, I don’t need comfort, I…” he gives up and holds out his arms. The bard sits next to him and enfolds him in a hug. He had no idea Dandelion could make himself so large. He only ever seems to do that on stage when he performs. This is some other kind of magic. He lets the bard snuffle and hiccup a little, knowing the other man is fighting back tears. It terrifies him. “I’d rather you just fucked me than go through this again.” 

“Oh gods, you’ve missed the point entirely, I don’t know how to get you to… you’re so dense,” Dandelion tells him crossly. "Promise me something."

"Anything."

"And really mean it. With all your heart."

"Are you going to make fun of me?" the Witcher asks nervously. 

"No. I am completely serious."

"Then I promise."

"You will not have sex with me unless you absolutely want to. Not you think I want it so you do, but on your own terms. And if something isn't pleasurable for you, doesn't feel right, you'll say something. Promise me." 

"I promise." Geralt feels utterly bewildered. 

"Mean it, Geralt. Like nothing you've promised before." 

"I do. I will…. I don't understand. But I promise. Can you please stop with this? You're upsetting me. And yourself." 

"For now. For now, I'll put it aside." He kisses the side of Geralt’s head tenderly, deeply concerned about him. How many times, he wonders? How many? The bard holds the witcher for a while, stroking his hair more to soothe himself, at this point. Geralt’s only in distress because Dandelion is. 

Dandelion kneels between Geralt’s legs, his back to the fire. He can see the witcher’s pupils are huge, taking in all the light they can. It’s never once bothered him to see those eyes reflect the light in the dark. In fact it’s usually a comfort to know Geralt is close, watching for him in the shadows, protecting him from the monsters. He gently presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, and then his forehead. Geralt leans in and presses his forehead to Dandelion’s. The witcher gently thumbs the last of the tears off the bard’s face. 

Neither one of them is sure what changes, but in spite of the chill, they’re pulling at each other’s clothes, kissing hard and fast. The bard groans and hums as the witcher divests him of his pants before dragging him onto his lap. They move against each other, messy and artlessly, seeking closeness just as much as each other. 

“Are you sure you want to do this? Really do this? You’re not just doing this because of earlier?” 

Geralt pulls away slightly, “You put the idea in my head. And... I want more,” he whispers, unsure if that’s okay. “You’ve…” he feels oddly embarrassed. He’s never cared much about these kinds of things before. It doesn’t seem shameful, so much as fragile. If he talks about it too obviously it will be gone. “I want you,” he tries to explain. 

“You have me, Geralt,” Dandelion assures him, too blinded by lust to really catch his meaning. It’s good that Geralt seems to want it of his own accord. Not that he can be too sure, but Geralt did start it, and is pursuing it. Dandelion isn’t pushing anything. So, he continues to relax into it. 

“Please,” he croaks, not sure how to even ask. He’s never wanted to have sex with a man before, and as such isn’t sure how to explain what he wants. 

“Ah,” the bard catches on after a few more rounds of soft kissing. “Of course,” he kisses his witcher’s collarbone. “Just hold still until I tell you,” he half asks half tells Geralt. He waits until the other man nods, meeting his eyes in the dim glow of the fire. “Give me two seconds,” he promises, and hops up to grab something from his saddle bags. 

When he returns with a small vial, he pops the cork and pours some of the contents into his palm. He strokes the witcher gently for a few moments, “you do want me,” he mumbles, almost surprised. It hardly took any effort on his part to ensure the other man was ready, too. 

Geralt nips at his neck lightly in response, half annoyed, half amused. “Why else have I been kissing you like this or rutting with you in the dirt?” 

“Is that what we’re calling it? Rutting?” Dandelion asks idly, easing himself down slowly. 

“No,” Geralt closes his eyes. “It’s much more isn’t it?” he asks tentatively. 

“I should say so,” Dandelion says tightly, the back of his thighs resting on the top of Geralt’s. “Don’t even twitch yet,” he threatens, wagging a finger in Geralt’s face. 

The witcher’s only response is to catch his hand and kiss his palm. He doesn’t take orders from anyone. However, he can be patient. And so he waits until the bard starts to move slowly on his own. He whines softly, low down in his throat, kissing Dandelion’s neck and chest. Carefully, he leans back, bracing his palms on the ground to give them both a little more stability. The bard uses Geralt’s shoulders and sometimes his chest for balance. When he can, he leans in and they kiss as though if they stopped, they’d cease to breathe. 

They find their balance, the bard constantly mumbling sweet nothings to Geralt between kisses. Unsure of what to do with all the compliments, Geralt hardly responds. Not that he thinks he could have focused long enough to come up with a coherent answer. As it is, he’s having enough trouble breathing, and he groans realizing their time like this is coming to an end, for now at least. 

“Dandelion,” he moans softly, trying to warn him he won’t hold out much longer. 

“I’m right there with you, Geralt,” Dandelion promises, breathing raggedly. 

“Stay with me,” the witcher whispers, fingertips digging into the earth. 

“As long as you want,” Dandelion agrees, head tipped back. His eyes close and he tangles a hand into Geralt’s hair, bringing their foreheads together gently. Geralt’s back arches slightly and he moans again, the hand on the bard’s hip squeezing almost hard enough to bruise. 

Spent, he remembers their first time together, and stays where he is, knowing that after, right after, Geralt likes to stay close. He wraps his legs around the witcher’s waist, settling in more comfortably. He allows Geralt to nuzzle and kiss him, basking in the affection. He lets his hands run over the witcher’s chest and arms, up over his shoulders, and smooths the sex touseled hair back from Geralt’s face. “I love the way you look in the firelight,” he admits, forgetting how uncomfortable that comment will make the witcher. “The red and orange across your skin, bright against the shadows, it’s such a beautiful combination.” 

Geralt looks away, but doesn’t push the bard from his lap, either. Instead, he rests his head on Dandelion’s shoulder, doing his best to just ignore it. He wants to say, ‘don’t ruin this, just let it be.’ But then the bard’s indignation and urge to fight would kick in and he would ruin it. And he’d be an unpleasant travelling companion for the next day, to boot. 

They sit like that for a while, until the chill and discomfort starts to overcome them. With minimal commentary they clean up and set their bedding together to curl in for the night. All of that work proves to be a waste of time when the bard notices the witcher is enjoying being close to him under the blankets. They take their time the second round, exploring each other’s bodies and enjoying each other far more. 

Geralt sighs, looking around them after, the sky is the grey of pre-dawn, “I thought you wanted me to rest.” Not that he’s complaining. His tone is amused, not annoyed. 

“Well I had to distract you; we both know you weren’t going to do any sleeping anyway. As it is, we can start breaking camp soon and be on our way. That should please you, should it not?” He arches an eyebrow. 

He sits up with a huff, and tugs the bard over to him, right up against his body, ignoring the way the bard’s breathing catches in excitement. While Geralt is fairly sure he could stand to go again, Dandelion’s right and they should break camp soon. “I think you know plenty of what pleases me,” he agrees. Perhaps they can just be close, and kiss for a bit. Until the sky is a little lighter. The horses don’t like moving about when it’s too dark. Skittish useless creatures at times. 

“Oh, I am far too sore for another round,” the bard protests. 

“Did I hurt you?” 

“Of course not, but still there’s only so much pounding a mortal can take,” he smiles. 

“I don’t think I would like another round, either,” Geralt points out, and Dandelion strokes him gently beneath the blankets as if checking to see if he’s telling the truth. 

“Ah, so you’d just like me to kiss you? I suppose, if I must,” he laughs. 

Geralt pulls back just a bit. “You mustn’t do much of anything,” he shrugs. “At least not with me.” 

With a nod, he realizes he cannot tease the witcher this way. Not anymore. “Geralt, I enjoy kissing you, and we have a bit before the sun is fully up. Do you truly think I would turn you down?” 

He looks away, and shrugs before looking back. “You mightn’t be in the mood,” he suggests. 

“Provided there is no reason I can’t, I think I would always be in the mood,” Dandelion smiles. On some level, it comforts him to know Geralt understands the idea of wanting something, and not forcing it on another person. He just doesn’t understand it in context of himself. Which is less comforting. 

Geralt gives him a faint smile back, barely visible in the firelight. He can see the fire burning down to coals, but the sun is just creating the horizon. He looks over the bard's shoulder, and his pupils shrink in the light of the sun. He'd pulled away for a moment, to watch the witcher breathe in the sunrise, watches his pupils shrink and the gold fill his eyes. The sun catches them and the bard loses his breath. "You're beautiful." 

Geralt jerks away, eyes wide in confusion. "And you're drunk," he counters roughly, pupils slitted against the dawn light. 

"Geralt, we've been on the road all night, like we have for the past two nights, and not a drop of alcohol between us for over a week. We just fucked, twice no less, and you know full well I've had nought to drink in days. What's wrong with you?" 

"Then you rolled in some herbal plant," he pulls away further, grabbing up his clothes up from the ground. He stands and begins dressing, pulling up his breeches and buttoning them. Looking for his shirt he sees it in a bush a few feet away and hopes the bard will have recovered his senses by the time they're dressed. _Beautiful_. 

"Geralt, I'm serious," Dandelion says in a soft voice. He hasn't made a move to get dressed, sitting naked on their bedroll. He's so confused. He'd said a great many complimentary things during sex and the Witcher hadn't protested once. "Geralt... Come over here please."

Something in Dandelion's voice gives the Witcher pause and he turns to look at the bard. He still sits there one hand out slightly before he drops it, not willing to beg anymore. 

With a groan Geralt walks back to the bedroll, handing the poet his shirt. "Did you drink bad water?" He asks more sympathetically. There's got to be some reason for this new idiocy. 

"Geralt, why do you think so many women want to fuck you? The novelty of it and nothing else?" He can't believe they've gone backwards on this so quickly. How does this happen? "You aren't a monster!" 

Thankful that the mutations prevent him from blushing, he presses his palm against the other man's forehead. "You don't seem to be sick. Get dressed. We'll catch up to Yen and Ciri soon if we hurry." 

"Geralt, I'm not moving until you sit down and face me and take this seriously."

"Then I'll leave you behind." 

"So be it." 

Growling in frustration he presses Dandelions shirt against his chest. "I could make you dress and tie you to the saddle."

"You wouldn't. It would be less work just to talk to me. You're usually quite practical." 

"Fine," Geralt snaps, dropping to the bedroll and facing the bard. Their knees touch and he leans in. "Fine. You are not inebriated or otherwise ill." He knows that. He's known that the whole time he just can't make himself believe that. 

Dandelion reaches out and cups Geralt's face with his palms. "Your eyes catch the light like they're holding the sun itself." He smooths the witcher's hair back from his forehead gently, tracing fine scars over his skin and into his scalp. "These don't disfigure you, they're hardly visible. You've got good cheekbones, and a jawline worthy of any hero in any story," his fingers moving over the planes of Geralt's face along with his words. "When it's clean, your hair is quite lovely, too," he adds dryly. "I'm surprised to admit I like it especially in contrast to Yennefer's. It's a bit like the night sky if I might wax poetical. Your hair looks like the stars when it's against hers." 

Geralt rolls his eyes, uncomfortable with being teased and starts to pull away, only to stop when the bard grips his chin hard. 

"There is nothing truly unusual about your appearance other than your eyes. Regardless of how you feel about yourself, plenty of men have white or grey hair. It does no harm to their looks." 

"Dandelion, I'm a mutant. These looks are because I'm an abomination. The sharpness of my teeth, my face, the fact the sinews show up against my skin even when I'm eating well, I'm always pale. It's obvious when you see me I'm not fully human. It's not just my hair and eyes, my whole body has changed." It had been excruciating. Everything had burned, he had felt broken and raw, and had wished it hadn't happened. Now, he's used to it. Used to his heightened senses, used to his new appearance, used to the way people stare at him and stink of fear. "I'm a mutant, nothing you say changes that or undoes it." 

"I've heard what Yennefer says when you call yourself that. I'm going to tell her you were at it again." He keeps Geralt's chin in his hand and kisses him gently. He ignores the witcher's obvious discomfort as he kisses his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, eyelids, and forehead. "There is nothing ugly about you, other than your negative attitude," Dandelion informs him, kissing him on the forehead again. "And while sometimes I enjoy your wit, I do not have any intention to tolerate any stupidity from you. We both know you're not a simpleton. Even when you pretend to be simply because people assume you are. I know you've read books, and studied. Even if some of it was just to impress that she-devil of yours."

Geralt doesn't know what to do about anything Dandelion is saying. So he just waits patiently for it to stop. When it looks like the bard is winding up for another speech that will make him even more uncomfortable, he decides to put a stop to more speechifying. In a single swift movement, he leans forward and presses his mouth over the poet's, pushing him flat back onto the bedroll. 

"Geralt!" Dandelion protests, pushing him back. The Witcher pulls away in consternation. "You do not get to fuck your way into winning an argument!" 

"Then why did you stay naked?" 

"To convince you of my sincerity and openness and to help charm you into agreeing with me, of course!" 

"I think your cock agrees with me," Geralt says dryly, still working to change the subject and get himself out of the conversation. 

Dandelion slaps the bedding in irritation. "I don't see how my cock wanting you would prove me wrong!" It takes him a few seconds of blustering to find his point. "I find you attractive, and you fucking me senseless will not change my mind Geralt!" Rising up on his knees to tap the Witcher on the chest, "however at this point you have clearly set us both up for a good fuck, and now that you're going to tell me we have to press on to catch up to Ciri and Yennefer and don't have time to pause-"

This time he lets the Witcher silence him with kisses and lets the witcher push him flat. This time he works the buttons loose and pushes the witcher's pants down over his hips. 

After the Witcher had fucked him senseless, for the third time in less than a day, he looks at him. "I don't retract any of my earlier arguments. I just want you to know."

"Then can you shut up about it so we can go catch up to the others?"

"I'm still telling Yennefer." 

"She'll laugh at you." Geralt does up his pants and starts gathering up their things as Dandelion dresses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes well, expect a new chapter next week. :} 
> 
> Comments are much appreciated should you be inclined to leave any. Thanks! (assuming anyone is still reading)


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which travel is suddenly interspersed with some plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta who also keeps me company via tumblr chat. <3 Ruusverd you're awesome. 
> 
> Thanks also to the rare commenters, I appreciate you guys. <3 Never stop, please. You keep me going.

They ride hard and Geralt does his best to ignore the poet creating new songs about his good looks. Nonexistent as they may be.

By the time they reach the town, it takes a matter of minutes to locate the inn Yennefer selected. Perhaps because it's one of two, and the other smells of urine all the way from across the road. 

The other inn has a stable and a conspicuous lack of puddles surrounding it. Yennefer would always choose the nicest inn, regardless of how incognito they need to be. He leads Roach towards that one, Dandelion on his heels. He’s not speaking to the bard, too worried about getting back to Ciri. And not having to have a conversation about his appearance ever again. Utter ridiculousness. He lets Dandelion go in first, taking both horses to settle them in the stables. The hay is fresh and clear of mold. He doles out some oats for Roach and sees Yennefer’s newest mount alongside Ciri’s Kelpie. Roach whickers softly at the other horses in greeting and then headbutts him, causing him to stagger back a little. Stroking her cheek for a few seconds and scratching along her jaw, he frees her from her tack, carefully hanging it before taking his time brushing her down. When her mane and tail are free of burs and tangles, he moves on to Dandelion’s horse. The fat beast gives him very little trouble, happier to stuff its face into the feed than to be groomed. 

The horses cared for, he lifts his head, nostrils flaring. He can smell Ciri and Yen, gooseberries and lilac, and then Dandelion’s unwashed self. The bard will smell differently, soon, probably more like cedar and then whatever oils he’s been using on the wood of his lute. He follows his nose, glaring when someone comes up to stop him from mounting the stairs. The maid backs away, and he continues up in search of his companions. 

Geralt has more or less forgotten Dandelion's promise to inform Yennefer of his earlier self-deprecation. He feels a dull sense of panic start low in his stomach that slowly crawls up into his throat, tightening it when he remembers about halfway up the stairs. He knows he’s walking into some kind of trap of his own making no matter what he does. Odds are Dandelion will have gotten himself all worked up trying to convince Yennefer to disabuse him of the fact he’s ugly. What Dandelion doesn’t understand is that Yennefer has never been a woman to pretty the truth, or to lie. Although, perhaps the sorceress will be in a good mood, having gotten a good laugh out of the bard before Geralt even gets to the rooms. That might help. 

Geralt takes a breath before continuing up the last few steps, misery coiling low in his gut. Whatever madness had gotten into the bard that morning was just going to end in humiliation for the witcher, rather than vindication for the bard. Perhaps he could take a room with Ciri and just avoid his lovers entirely until the whole issue blows over. Glumly, he reflects that is entirely unlikely seeing as how Dandelion is like a starved cur with a bone once he decides to dig his heels in. And Yen....Yen likes to win.

He pauses on the landing, head tilted, listening. His witcher’s enhanced hearing allows him to hear through the doors relatively easily, and he focuses on the sound of Ciri’s voice. While he isn’t close enough to understand her every word, her tone is concerned. Nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply again, taking in their scents, he can smell the bitter tang that tells him not all is well. Throat squeezing and stomach curdling in dread, he goes to the door, takes one last pause to be sure, and pushes the door open. 

Not expecting the scene that greets him when he enters the room, he takes a step back when Ciri slams into him, wrapping her arms tight around his middle. "Dandelion says you've got a poor opinion of yourself and it's our job to disabuse you of it. Yen says he's a moron." 

Geralt snorts since he agrees with Yen but Dandelion is staring at him morosely and he doesn't want to hurt the bard worse. Yennefer's mocking had probably been quite thorough. Then he catches her glance and recoils slightly. She's angry. At him. He opens his mouth to speak but realizes he has no idea what he's done wrong. 

The sorceress crosses the floor in two steps and raises her hand as if she intends to slap him. He freezes, and then notes she's dropped her hand. 

"You ... Geralt. All this time? You've really felt that all this time? I know you try and play the fool when you think it will benefit you, but I never thought you believed it. Or the things people say about witchers. Am I a monster Geralt? Because I am no longer entirely human? You were a boy once, until you passed the trials. Then you became a Witcher. A ‘horrible mutation’, as you like to say. But you're still human, Geralt. You still..." She looks at him fiercely. "I don't know what to do with you. Or say to you," she tells him softly, cupping his cheek. He pulls away, unwilling to meet her eyes. She knows he doesn’t think of her as a monster, or a mutation. Even if she isn’t fully human, and that’s why her magic is so strong. The pain he’s holding onto cuts her. "Do you really think all the women lining up to fuck you want to do it because they're daring themselves to fuck a tame monster?" 

She sees the accession in his eyes. "Geralt. You're quite handsome. And anything but tame. Or a monster." She curls her fingers into his hair, dragging his head down to press his forehead to hers. "Either you think I am a monster, too, or blind, if you think I would debase myself to fuck you. If I saw you how you saw yourself." 

He stares at her, pupils enlarging as he takes in the details of her face. 

"Geralt. I love you. And I know you love me. Do you think I would attach myself to someone truly hideous and inhuman? Regardless of the personal gain." She lets him pull even farther away, knowing that he is deeply uncomfortable and unable to have this conversation with her. "No one finds you ugly. Those that fear your hair and eyes are fools. Have you never seen the light catch them? They light up like liquid gold. There's nothing monstrous in them." 

He stares at her in confusion, stunned. "Yen, we don't need to, uh...There’s no point to any of this. It doesn’t change what I am." His throat is tight and he finds he just wants to leave the room. "I'll go ask the owner to have a bath drawn for you," he says and turns on his heel to go. 

He hears Dandelion protest, and Yen hush him. He chooses not to listen as he hears Ciri's voice rise in confusion and hurt. Yennefer hushes her, and he tries not to hear anything more. 

"You scared our Witcher," she sounds faintly amused. Even if her mind is turning over how to best help Geralt. Currently, she feels letting him go lick his wounds is the best option. If they push him too hard, he’ll just get angry and none of it will matter. Once he shuts down it’s all over. 

"I had no idea. You didn't either, did you? With all your mind reading,” Dandelion shakes his head in frustration. “How can he see himself like that?” 

"I suppose I should say I'm surprised you were able to catch anything I missed. But I am thankful you saw it when I did not. He sees such beauty in the world around him I hadn't thought he saw none in himself." She waves a hand to forestall the bard's indignant protest. "I know he sees himself as less. I just hadn't thought it ran even deeper than that. I know he hates being different, I know he feels he doesn't deserve all that he does. I didn't know how deep all that hatred ran." 

Ciri looks at Yennefer. "You've called me ugly. Why is it such a bad thing to be ugly?"

"Do you think Geralt is ugly?" Yennefer asks. 

"No. I suppose he looks like any other man, other than the hair and eyes. At least until he does that smile of his. The one he uses when he's being threatening. Not his real smile. Would I have come to look like him had I kept training to be a Witcher?"

"If you survived the trials of the grasses, you might have had, yes. As it is, you'll stay how you are."

Geralt stumps up the stairs, knowing a few moments later tubs will be brought up. This is the kind of inn where one doesn't go down to the tub. He hopes Yennefer has the coin to pay for it. He doesn't. And neither does the bard. For all perhaps he could sing up supper at least. Yen booked two rooms. So he heads into the other, before deciding he can't stand it. He heads back to the other room, pausing at the door he shakes his head. Since when does he feel fear? Witchers don't feel. Once he's opened the door and glanced around, he sees the bard and sorceress focus on him.

"He called you a she-devil," he says abruptly, hoping to shift focus on that. Holding out his hand for Ciri, she jumps up and takes it and lets him lead her from the room. 

Before Dandelion can puff up and pick a fight with Geralt Yen holds a hand up, indicating he should let Geralt escape. "I've called you much worse. Both to your face and behind your back." 

"And I you." 

"So no harm done then. We've put it aside for him before. And quite frankly 'she-devil' is one of the kinder things I've been called." 

Ciri allows Geralt to curl up with her on top of the linens. They haven't bathed so there's no point in getting under them. She remembers when he first found her at the farm. He'd promised they would be together. And the only way she had slept was at his side. Perhaps he needs her now like she needed him; to chase away the nightmares. Unexpectedly soothed by his repeated stroking of her hair, she drifts off contentedly. Geralt finds himself calmer as the girl eases into sleep. Her heart beats against his, quicker but no less powerful. Her small hands grip the leathers of his jerkin and he's glad to know even if he falls asleep, she will be there when he wakes. Safe, in his arms.

When a knock at the door wakes them, Ciri pulls away and palms her dagger as Geralt stands to answer. He listens for a moment, heightened senses hearing nothing amiss as he pulls open the door to allow the tub to be brought in. Next door he sees another one going into Yennefer's room. 

The maid gives him a look when she sees Ciri sitting on the edge of his bed. "This is a respectable place, sir," she says softly as her fellows start to leave. She dumps a stack of towels with a cake of soap onto the small chest. 

"It isn't like that," Geralt growls, surprised by the disgust he feels at the idea. "She is my d- apprentice. I teach her a trade. I do not bed her. You will not suggest that again." 

The maid, utterly terrified, mumbles her apologies and flees. 

Ciri hears the catch in his voice and feels a hint of wonder. He was going to say daughter, she's sure. "You've scared them so now they won't bring any water," she tells him accusingly. 

"They'll bring it to Yen. Besides you'll bathe in her rooms anyway." He cocks his head to the side, listening as he hears heavy footsteps up the stairs and the slosh of water. "They're bringing it now. Best hurry, don't keep her waiting." He shoos the cub into the next room after checking nothing is amiss. Other than his dignity.

Dandelion heads into the room with the Witcher, leaving the women to bathe peace. "She's going to make us sick insisting we bathe every chance she gets."

Geralt grunts as he begins working his leather armor loose enough to remove, “That’s all bullshit, no one caught sick of bathing.”. Buckets of water still arrive at their room despite Ciri's reservations. It's even still hot. 

“Plenty of people have!” 

“Hm,” Geralt replies rather than have another fruitless conversation. 

Once the servants have all left Geralt watches lazily as Dandelion strips and sinks into the tub. The bard scrubs himself quickly and ducks his head multiple times to rinse his hair. 

"Why is it I always help you bathe and not the other way around?"

"You've never asked," the Witcher points out. 

"Well then I'm asking now, come scrub my back "

Geralt gets up from the bed with a grunt. His leg still aches. Picking up a handful of soap flakes he raises his eyebrows in annoyance until Dandelion leans forward to make it possible to rub his back. Unsure of what to do exactly, he does his best to recall and replicate how Dandelion helps him. After working the soap around he carefully kneads the bard's neck and shoulders. He's afraid to hurt the other man. He freezes when Dandelion groans. 

"Oh, don't stop, not yet," the bard protests. 

"The water will be cold," Geralt says patiently. 

"You always say witchers don't feel things," he points out, looking to push at Geralt again. To keep trying to force him into admitting he isn’t abnormal like he thinks. 

"I can feel physical things Dandelion," his voice takes a hard edge. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t tolerate the discomfort. There’d been plenty of monsters in fetid bogs, piles of filth and trash, swamps… and he’d tackled them all without a second thought. Without giving in to the revulsion that would have stopped a normal man from even approaching the monster. He’d pushed past shit and filth to kill things, as needed. Taken his coin from revolted aldermen and other terrified townsfolk. It always cut to see the hatred and mistrust in their eyes as he showed proof of the monster’s death. He’d done it for them. And for the coin since one has to have coin to live on. The assumption he enjoys killing for the sake of killing is what cuts him the most. That he’s some barbarian monster who loves killing and has found a way to profit off it. 

"I know. I know you feel pain." Dandelion tips his head up to look at Geralt. He reads the hurt there and purses his lips. "I wasn't mocking you or trying to hurt you earlier. What I said I said in earnest. I like your eyes." He reaches up to touch Geralt's cheek and slide his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him in close. “Geralt, I know you feel things. I know you can feel discomfort, and pleasure, and pain, and all of that.” 

Rather than reply, Geralt shuts his eyes. 

"Have you truly never seen it? You truly don't believe me? Geralt..."

Unsure why those cornflower blue eyes are regarding him so sadly, and at a loss for how to fix it, he presses his lips gently to the bard's. Dandelion pulls away after a moment, and Geralt stares at him helplessly. What’s he supposed to do? 

"I wish you fit in here with me," Dandelion sighs. "I'll get out before the water is cold. No sense in making you suffer more than you make yourself already." 

Once standing he dries off quickly and watches Geralt slide into the tub uncomfortably. His knees are forced to bend up near his chest. The Witcher rubs at his leg, face carefully blank but Dandelion notices the signs of pain all the same. The way his jaw juts forward just a bit, his eyebrows have a slight crinkle and his shoulders are tense. 

"I can help you with that," he offers, gesturing at Geralt's knee. 

"I don't think you can," Geralt says heavily. 

"Then I can wash your hair," he gets up half dressed, trousers still unbuckled and his shirt waiting for him on the bed. It takes a moment or so to work soap through the witcher's hair, turning it from a greyish white back to milk. It takes a few rinses to get all the soap out and by the end of it Geralt feels much better. He's come to realize he quite enjoys having his scalp massaged. He's never had a problem enjoying physical attention. Not many people are willing to touch him with any kind of kindness or affection, so when someone is, he can barely stop himself from leaning into it. Eyes closed, he tilts his head up when Dandelion stops, opening them slowly and checking on the other man. Somewhat concerned by Dandelion's expression he finishes scrubbing up without help, and gets out of the tub, even though he’s not sure he’s ready to leave the warmth of the water. Or pull himself away from the bard’s gentle fingers. 

Drying himself roughly, he drags on breeches and pulls the bard away from the lip of the tub to sit with him on the bed. "I don't like the look on your face," Geralt says quietly, not sure how to go about fixing this. Usually his only long-term interactions of a romantic nature were with Yen, and she had no problem speaking her mind. He rarely hurt her feelings so badly she turned morose. Not to say they didn't have their fights. There was just usually more loud voices and fucking after. Or going their separate ways. 

"Well unfortunately it's just how my face looks right now. I'm quite tired you know." 

"You were happier earlier."

"Do you truly not feel emotion Geralt? Can you truly say that? You can only feel the physical things? A hand on your skin, cold water clutching at you, and nothing else?"

"Dandelion..." 

"Can you look at me right now and truly say you don't know what it is to have feelings? Anger? Happiness? Amusement? .... Love?" He says the last word in barely more than a whisper. They’ve talked about it before, but each time it seems like Dandelion never gains any ground and Geralt goes right back to refusing to admit anything. 

Geralt searches for words to explain what it's like. He'd been made to not care. To not fear. To do things that regular humans were too good for. Such as fighting a monster in a moat of waste. What normal man would do that simply because that's all he exists for? His throat squeezes because he knows answering this wrong will end badly. And everything is so new and he's not ready to lose it. He likes being caught between the bard and sorceress, he likes how together they make him feel something he has no name for, but he’s sure it’s something good. 

"I... Dandelion, you're asking me something I can't even answer for myself," he says pleadingly. "I know I'm not empty inside, I'm not devoid of all things, but I don't ... I don't feel as you do. I'm a m-"

"Don't say that to me either. I won't stand for it any more than she does." Dandelion starts when a knock sounds at the door. 

Ciri pokes her head in, tousled locks of hair still damp. "Yennefer was wondering if you would go order food to be brought up. Since you're the least conspicuous of us," She asks Dandelion politely. He accedes to her request and Geralt sits uncomfortably on the bed, feeling lost. 

Ciri comes over, "Put on your shirt and I'll fix your hair again. Like before." 

"Can you bring the comb in here?"

"Yen says hiding from her won't make the problem go away."

He raises a brow. 

"She said if you tried to hide in here to tell you that," the girl shrugs. "If this is all about your looks then I don't understand any of it. But all the same Yennefer hates that headband you use, so let me fix your hair back so there's nothing else for you two to gripe over." 

"Like chickens in the coop," he suggests. 

She glances at him, “Some monsters wear human skin, and they’re far more terrifying than any other kind I’ve seen.” Shaking her head, a little, she shrugs and heads back to the other room. A little shaken, the voice hadn’t quite been hers, and she’d looked at him with an intensity he’s unused to. The girl has magic, he knows. Geralt tugs his shirt on but doesn't tuck it in before following his cub to the other room. He sits on the bed and allows Ciri to brush out and tie back his hair. It's soothing. 

Yennefer is busily completing her grooming regimen and the room smells of lilac and gooseberries. He closes his eyes until he hears footsteps approach and cool fingers slip under his chin. He looks up at her, unconcerned. He's so very tired. 

"Maybe you wouldn't be as exhausted if you two hadn't dallied about like rutting dogs at daybreak?" She suggests lightly. Not that she minds, she started that. If nothing else she hopes he found some satisfaction in it. He’s in some kind of turmoil and she respects him enough to not pry intentionally to find out why. She can’t help getting some thoughts, or flashes of feelings, but she doesn’t have to go digging. 

"Or perhaps several nights with no bed, not enough food, and constantly having to change course and split up to avoid the Nilfgaardian army wears on a person after a while." 

"Then rest. Food will be here soon enough and you'll feel more yourself." She kisses his forehead. 

He frowns slightly, he'd expected her to pick up where Dandelion had left off. Or just to be more tempestuous in general. Ciri has busied herself with unpacking and laying out her and Yennefer's clothing. "It'll need a clothes press," she complains.

Geralt chooses to let them dicker over how to pack better and leans against the headboard with his eyes closed until sleep claims him. When Dandelion joins him, he shifts to accommodate them both better. The bard chooses to drop his head into Geralt's lap, an arm thrown over his legs.

When the food is brought up on trays, they fall ravenously upon it. Rolls of warm bread packed with seeds disappear alongside a hearty lamb stew within minutes.

Geralt crawls wearily into bed after, unsurprised no one feels much like joining him. All their fine words about him, and when he could use the comfort, they’re all too busy. Not that he’s said anything or done anything to indicate he wants company. 

"Don't wallow," Yennefer tells him sharply. "Not everyone can sleep just because they're bored or having a fit of self-pity." She has no intention of putting up with him having a fit over nothing. They’re not as tired as he is, and she’s not ready to lie down. 

Unable to come up with anything sufficiently nasty to say in response, he simply gets up and goes into the other room to sleep in peace. Grateful to hear Ciri's slippers on the wooden floor behind him, he hadn't asked her to come but he's still struggling to allow her out of his sight. Splitting up had been agonizing. 

"You didn't used to sleep this much; I had hoped you might help continue my training."

"In the morning," he agrees. After shedding his boots, he works his way under the linens and tries to find a way to sleep that will ease his aching leg. He feels like it's sucking the life out of him, the way the pain always presses on him. Always there in the back of his mind, aching unceasingly until it flares into sharp blooms of agony. 

He shifts around in the bed, trying to find a comfortable way to rest. He’s so exhausted. Why is it so hard to get settled? He grumbles to himself, shifting around miserably. 

"What's wrong?" Ciri asks sharply, heading over to the bed and setting down the book she'd brought. He hadn't even noticed it earlier. He wonders vaguely how long he'd been twisting around for her to notice. Minutes? Hours? 

He doesn’t have an answer for her. His leg hurts, what of it? He’ll get settled and he’ll get some rest and it will be fine. There’s no reason for her to be worried. He’s been in pain for months now, ever since… ever since the tower fell. Ever since Vilgefortz, ever since he almost lost Ciri forever. 

"I'm getting Yen," Ciri tells him and he wonders if he didn't answer her. His head aches and he feels befuddled. Was the food poisoned? No, Ciri is fine. Alert with her wits about her. What if he had made the maid mad and she only poisoned his food? No, not possible she couldn’t know who would eat what plate. Upon further deliberation it turns out he doesn't much care if the food was poisoned, if it'll make his leg stop aching. 

Yen hurries in with Ciri on her heels, feeling genuine fear when her witcher doesn't turn to the door when she opens it. Dandelion is right behind her. 

"Witchers can't get sick, can they?" He asks worriedly. 

"They're very strong, but I suppose it's possible. Geralt isn't exactly an open book of Witcher lore." 

“Yennefer, he was twisting around like he was in pain,” Ciri reminds her. 

"Was he conscious when you left?" 

"Yes," Ciri tells her. "Maybe not lucid but he knew I was talking to him."

"It's that damn leg of his," Dandelion suggests. "It was bothering him in the bath earlier. It's been bothering him constantly just about." 

Yennefer knows their voices should wake him up. "He wouldn't faint from a sore leg," she snaps, lightly shaking him. "Get up," she tells him. 

When he still fails to rouse, she pulls the blankets down a bit, running her hands over him. "Geralt," she shakes him gently. She looks at Ciri, “Nothing’s broken,” she reassures her. His muscles are hard and tense, she knows he’s suffering. But she’s not finding any bruising or any points that make him twitch. “Geralt, wake up,” she puts an edge into her voice. He very much doesn’t like being told what to do. 

"Leave off," he wakes enough to glare at her, or try to. His eyes unfocused. "I'm cold," he tells her vaguely before reclaiming the blankets from her. Yen runs her hands over forehead and neck. "He's freezing. Ciri, take your book and curl up beside him, keep him warm. I'll see if there's any bed warmers." She feels a touch of worry, but perhaps if he's in a bleak enough mood it affects his physical health. They'd certainly upset him earlier. And Dandelion had kept pressing. She felt it was good to let Geralt suffer a little here and there, at least about his supposed lack of feelings. It's easy enough to remember the wide range of feelings he has. Telling her he loves her, before sex, instead of only after. Unlike some. The anger and hurt he's capable of carrying. She hurries down the stairs, wondering what spells might work should his condition worsen.

He'd almost died thanks to the beating he took from Vilgefortz. Had tramped out of Brokilon half healed to go find Ciri. Gone through hell and armies to get to her. Perhaps he's just worn himself out and his body is taking time to finish healing.

Dandelion settles with his lute against Geralt's side. He'll try and help keep Geralt warm, too. Ciri reads quietly as Yennefer comes back in unsure of how to help. 

"They'll bring up the bed warmers shortly," she informs them, glancing briefly at the lump under the blankets. There's not much she can do just yet. She's avoiding using magic in case anyone were to notice. It looks like they're keeping him about as warm as they can. "Must you do that?" she asks, referring to his lute. 

"Not all of us can get whatever we want by spreading our legs." 

"But you're so good at it. How else do you find patrons for that drivel you call music?" 

"You need a nap," he huffs, and picks up his lute with a jangle of strings and leaves the room. He'll drum up some business and gather some news. And hopefully the Witcher will be awake and the witch will be in a better mood.

Not much seems to help keep him warm, and while she does her best to get a look at his leg, he resists her even while sleeping. Finally, giving up on getting him to cooperate, she doses him with poppy syrup which at least eases the pain he’s in. Dandelion is worried the poppy will stop him from waking at all and Yennefer has no interest in debating the point with him. If Geralt is in pain, then the pain needs to be eased. With his witcher’s immunity to most poisons and drugs, the poppy won’t last even a quarter of the time it should have. He’ll be hurting again soon enough.

They spend the night tense and worried, only to find in the morning Geralt is awake, if a little groggy. Breakfast passes quickly as they prepare to move on. There’s some arguing between them about whether to risk staying and letting Geralt rest longer, or if it’s better to move on in case more soldiers pass through. It’s Ciri who suggests in a trembling voice that they take Geralt back to Kaer Morhen. If he’s sick, perhaps Old Vesemir would know what it was and be able to cure him.

When he’s lucid, Geralt mostly grumbles that he’s fine, and they should move on as soon as possible. He seems more aware throughout the day, only to fall heavily asleep after dinner, body tense with pain.

“We have to be far enough away that I can risk a portal without alerting anyone, and I’ll get us as close to the keep grounds as possible.”

“Yennefer, what if he can’t make it long enough to wait for this ‘right time to portal’?”

“He’ll be fine, he’s strong. His heartbeat is still steady, he’s still competent when he’s conscious. Sleep seems to help revive him somewhat. He feeds himself when he’s awake. I don’t see why another day or so of travel is a risk.” She does inwardly wonder if she should have paid him more mind weeks ago when he’d told her he hadn’t felt right. She’d assumed roughing it with that much stress had just been a bad combination for all of them, and not anything to be concerned about.

“And if Vesemir can’t help him?”

“I am not entirely sure we need Vesemir in the first place,” she points out. “However, there’s enough low level magic thrumming all through Kaer Morhen that I should be able to hide most of what I’m doing.”

“And if that’s true why haven’t we gone back there, before?”

“In case they went looking for Ciri there. Where else would a witcher take a child of surprise, Dandelion? Novigrad? No, we’ve had no intention of causing a second sacking of the keep. But perhaps we’ll have to take the risk.”

“Don’t they think she’s dead?”

“They did. But it’s not as if Geralt looking for Rience didn’t cause some problems. Somehow, someone caught on to what he was doing and found the firm helping him. Ciri told me one of her dreams, and I checked into it. They’re dead. I suspect they found some proof of her. Not to mention her being teleported half across the globe did nothing to help us keep her location a secret. Geralt would rather be dead than risk her again, but I have to hope that no one can get back to the keep or that people think she’s elsewhere.”

“Then let’s get him moving first thing tomorrow.”

“We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will see if I can update next week, I'm going out of town, and may or may not be able to take my laptop. I will have my phone, so I can still see those rare sweet comments you guys leave. :} 
> 
> (There's roughly 22 chapters in total across 2 parts, here, so I have plenty to update for the few of you still reading.) 
> 
> Hope you all are well and COVID isn't getting you down too badly. 
> 
> And that if you're in an area with protests/riots, that you're safe. Be well. BLM.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was beta'd by monochroma back in it's entirety. So thank you monochroma. 
> 
> And thank you to ruusverd for being patient as i re-explain the same scene I'm having issues writing 9 million times without any kind of variation I'm sure. I hope you look forward to editing the hot mess it's going to be.
> 
> Thank you to the people leaving comments. <3 You guys are what keep me going. Hope you enjoy getting an update a day or two early. 
> 
> Also fun fact: I lost the updated version of this chapter and who knows what all else, and none of the restore files brought back any of the changes/updates I made. So.

By the time they reach Kaer Morhen Geralt is barely staying in the saddle. Ciri has his hands tied to the pommel in front of her, so that she can brace him with her body and if he passes out he won't fall off the horse. Yennefer is extremely concerned, to the point she risked portalling them to within a mile or so of the keep. She knows it will send out a beacon to anyone looking, but there's nothing to be done. Geralt's condition had deteriorated progressively. He'd stayed colder and colder and had slept more and more as the days went on, becoming harder and harder to wake every morning. 

When he'd fallen asleep riding and slid off Roach without even waking properly she'd immediately portalled them. She hadn't wasted another minute. By the time they pass the trail, and reach the gap in the walls Yennefer has a plan to figure out what's wrong with the witcher. It doesn't seem to be any illness. His eyes are clear, his skin is cool and dry, his stomach unbothered, and witchers can't get sick. She has a feeling someone has cursed her Witcher. And she is going to trace that curse back to the source and make them regret the day they ever heard of Geralt of Rivia. 

The worst part has been waking up each morning wondering if he's died. With such slow heart beats, on top of the chilled flesh and all consuming exhaustion... They would check his breathing and work to rouse him before travelling on. There was no way to keep him warm. Nothing they did seemed to help. 

Dandelion had gone through the witcher's bags but hadn't found any of his elixirs. In a rare moment of lucidity Geralt had revealed all of his things had been lost or destroyed on his solo hunt for Ciri. If nothing else Vesemir will have more elixirs and stimulants that they can use to keep Geralt alive until Yennefer can kill the spellcaster responsible. 

Lambert and Cöen meet them, sheathing swords as they recognize first Geralt and then Ciri. They drag Geralt off the horse and carry him inside the keep. 

"Get him warm," Dandelion calls, dismounting stiffly and working to unsaddle his horse. Yennefer throws him her reins as well. "I am NOT your valet!" 

"I don't have time to handle the horse and save Geralt. What would you like me to do bard? Play stable maid or save the Witcher?" 

"Bitch," he mumbles, but jerks his head and tips his chin at the door. She stops to grab her saddle packs, throws them over her shoulders, hitches up her skirts and runs to catch up to the witchers, already calling instructions. 

Ciri slides off the horse and begins helping Dandelion get the animals situated in the stables. Pouring out feed, removing bridles and saddles, and helping him rub them down. Geralt would be devastated if their inaction lamed Roach. Not that he would admit it. Geralt would claim to feel nothing and just say it was part of life. However, he would grieve.

By the time Ciri and Dandelion make it inside, Lambert is waiting to guide them to where Geralt and Yennefer are. Ciri cocks her head to the side, unsurprised to hear Yennefer cursing and even less surprised to see Cöen scuttling out of the room, Vesemir on his heels. 

Dandelion steps to the side of the hallway to let the witchers escape the enchantress' curses. Raising his eyebrows he shares a look with Ciri. They head into the room apprehensively. 

"Close the fucking door, you'll let the heat out!"

Ciri turns quickly and shuts it.

"Ciri, come hold his head. These bastards don't even have pillows," she spits. 

They at least had blankets and wood for a fire. Geralt has been laid out and covered in blankets a few feet from the hearth. His body is about as close as it could safely be without burning or catching fire to the blankets. 

Dandelion goes over to his lover, heart in his throat. Still alive. He's been stripped of everything but his witcher's medallion, and packed into the blankets. His clothes are neatly folded and left on a chair by the table. 

Yennefer finishes with the ingredients she's been mixing and walks over to Geralt, holding her hands over him. "Don't interrupt me," she warns before closing her eyes. 

Ciri quietly strokes Geralt's hair, picking bits of forest detritus from it. He didn't appear to be injured from his fall earlier, but they won't know until he'll truly wake up. They hadn't found blood or any bruising, and a judicious peek under the blanket doesn't reveal any bruising to his shoulders that she can see. He'll need another bath. They all do, they'd ridden hard the past few days, hardly stopping to do more than rest the horses. At least he feels warmer. She glances up and notices Dandelion is gently rubbing the witchers feet and legs through the blankets to help warm them. 

The troubadour watches as the sorceress holds her hands over Geralt's inert body, brow furrowed in concentration. All sense of time is lost, and when she stands up, triumph in her gaze, she looks down. "Ciri, when I break the curse there will be consequences. Don't let him dash his brains out if he seizes. Turn him if he retches. I would hate to go through all this trouble for him to aspirate his own vomit and die." She glances down at Dandelion. "Do whatever she asks. I'll be back shortly." She steps away and disappears into a portal.

Dandelion sputters indignantly for a few minutes. "What's she gone off for? What's breaking a curse got to do with leaving? Or does she just not want to deal with the mess?" 

"She's gone to kill the person who cast it. Undoing a curse can be tricky. You need to know what the curse was meant to do, and what ingredients are used. If she just does and forces the caster to undo it and then kills them, they can't recast it and it's broken." 

"Ah. I wonder how long it'll-" his words are abruptly cut off as the witcher's back arches harshly leaving Geralt rasping for air. "Ah, fuck. Not long. Efficient woman, she is. Not much dithering." 

Ciri keeps Geralt's head in her lap as his body jerks violently, heels drumming against the stone as the force of the seizure frees his body from the blankets. Blood runs from his nose and when his eyelids flutter Ciri can see that blood vessels in his eyes have ruptured. She realizes abruptly that the water on Geralt's face isn't from a leaky ceiling; it's because she's crying. Dandelion's face is pale as he sits back unsure of what to do to help. He doesn't want to try to pin the witcher's limbs in case he gets himself injured. The troubadour knows he's not strong enough to do much. 

Geralt's spine arches, and Ciri can't breathe, terrified he'll break his own back, when suddenly he collapses, senseless, on the blankets. She waits, frozen, blood from his nose and mouth soaking into her skirt. When his chest rises a sob rips out of her throat. 

"Fuck," Dandelion says succinctly. He's just as scared as she is. He puts a hand on Geralt's chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his palm. It's unnaturally slow, just like it should be. Suddenly the Witcher heaves, "Turn him!" Dandelion gasps, shifting his hands to help Ciri turn Geralt over before he can choke. 

Ciri feels guilty about being glad Geralt hadn't really eaten for the past several days. They had gotten broth into him several times, and one day they'd gotten lucky and managed to feed him some gruel. She feels that her situation would be exponentially worse if he'd been eating like normal. She's kept Geralt's head in her lap this whole time. Now her skirts are soaked in blood and vomit. There's no point in even trying to clean the dress. She'll just burn it when this is over. She knows she shouldn't care about the dress but she's so panicked that thinking about Geralt will make her cry and she won't be able to help. She'll just shut down and become useless. 

He chokes and gags, the blood in his nostrils making it hard to breathe while he retches. 

"Oh fucking hell," Dandelion says helplessly, a hand on Geralt's back, he rubs gently and uselessly. Thankfully not much comes up and he doesn't dry heave for long. 

Vesemir comes in, clearly having run. "What the bloody hell is going on here!?" The other witchers are right behind him and Dandelion drags a blanket over Geralt's prone form. He hands another to Ciri so she can mop herself up a little. She looks down, and her tears mix into the blood, and she sees tears on his face, too. Apparently witchers do have tear ducts. His body still trembles spasmodically. 

"Geralt, don't get up," Dandelion is the first to notice the witcher trying to get his arms under his body. He's breathing raspily through his mouth. "We'll get you up in a moment, just relax."

"Don't try to move just yet Geralt," Ciri whispers, kissing his temple. 

"We've got it handled thank you!" Dandelion finally acknowledges the others. "Yennefer should be back shortly. All we'll need is a place to get some hot water and a tub." 

"There's a bathing pool below. Fed by some streams and some old magician found a way to heat it. What's going on?"

"Yennefer found a curse, and she's gone to handle it. She'll be back soon."

Vesemir makes as if to come closer and Ciri bares her teeth. It feels wrong to let anyone see him like this. It should be private. No one should be invading this. 

"We can get him down the steps then," Dandelion says, picking up on Ciri's mood. For all he wouldn't mind help moving Geralt, it's not as if the witcher is light. His hand still rests on Geralt's side. He can feel tremors shaking the other man, still. He glances at Ciri and sees her gently wiping blood off Geralt's face with the corner of a blanket. She's hunched over whispering to him. 

Vesemir glances at the other two and holds up his palms as if to say he's washing his hands of it. "Try not to kill him," he admonishes. "I would hate it if you brought him here just to drop off his corpse." With that, he turns and leaves. 

Ciri bites back a sob. "Don't leave me alone, I just got you back. I'm your destiny," she pleads softly, her forehead pressed against his temple. 

"Ciri," Geralt manages to force out. She stops mid sob, he sounds scared. "Ciri is my leg broken?" He asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

She glances at Dandelion and the troubadour immediately runs his hands over both of Geralt's legs, pulling the blankets aside to check for bruising or broken skin. He shakes his head. 

"Your legs are fine," Ciri promises.

"They are not fine. I can't get up," Geralt tells her, unable to keep his voice from shaking. 

"You will. You were very sick. We'll get you up and cleaned up. Just wait till Yen gets back. Just lay here a bit longer." She keeps carding her fingers through his hair. It's damp with sweat, and sticking to his skin. He can't feel good. She dabs at his forehead with the blanket, feeling useless. Perhaps she should have let Vesemir help. But he couldn't do anything useful earlier so why give him another chance?

Just when she's about to scream for them to come back anyway a portal opens and Yennefer steps out. The enchantress is soaked in blood and Ciri thinks there might be a tooth in her hair. Maybe several.Yen tosses her hair back, and looks at them. "Is he alright?"

"I don't know," Ciri whispers. 

Yennefer can smell blood, vomit, and urine. "I really thought the after effects would be less harsh," she braids back her hair, revealing blood splattered across her cheeks. 

"My gods," Dandelion looks at her, finally noticing the gore coating her. 

"I turned him inside out," she shrugs as she drops to her knees, turning Geralt gently to look at him. He's either passed out or fallen asleep. She gently lifts an eyelid. "His pupils are reactive, that's a good sign," she smiles faintly. Smoothing away some blood, she looks him over. She glances at Ciri while gently stroking his cheek. "Are you alright?" Leaning over more she wraps the girl in a tight hug. "Be brave just a big longer, my strong one." After pulling back she wraps a blanket around Geralt's middle. Knotting it at the corner so she won't have to hold it, she gently pats his cheek. "Wake up love, let's get you cleaned up." Her breath catches when his eyes open, and she can see the burst vessels. "Can you stand?"

"I think so," he tells her, eyes roving around the room. "How did we get here?" He asks, voice slurred. 

"We tied you to your horse and rode until I could use a portal." 

"Ah," he groans, struggling to get his limbs in working order. Dandelion gets an arm over his shoulders and Yen takes the other, and between the two of them they manage to get Geralt back on his feet. 

"Ciri, can you get us all fresh clothes from our packs?" 

"Yes," she says hesitantly. "Do you know where to take him?" She asks softly. 

"He knows. You'll catch us on the stairs I'm sure, we won't be going fast." She whispers softly to Geralt as they slowly make their way out of the room. Dandelion watches Geralt walk, the halting steps, the way he drags one leg a little, and bites his lip. He hadn't felt any breakage, there's no bruising. It can't be broken. It was broken before, but the elves in Brokilon healed it. The seizure couldn't have fractured it again, could it? The injury was older now, hardly fresh. 

Geralt's head lolls as they stumble down the hall, he can't keep it upright any more than he can stop the twitching and trembling of his overwrought muscles.

The bathing pool, if it could be called that, is small, and it takes Dandelion a few tries to get the single torch lit. By then Geralt is mostly standing on his own, some of his strength returning. All the same it takes both the bard and the sorceress to help him into the water. 

Yennefer had been right and Ciri had caught up shortly, they hadn't even reached the stairway down. The girl had stripped to her shift and plunged into the pool first to stop Geralt from drowning until the other two could get in to help. Yennefer strips down completely, and eases herself into the heated water. 

She allows Ciri to hold onto Geralt, the water buoys him up enough the girl can handle it without help as she dunks her head beneath the water and rinses it quickly, slicking it back out of her way so she can help Ciri easier. The torch doesn't provide much light, but that's perhaps for the best. Dandelion slips into the water behind her, eyes huge with worry. 

"I'm alright," Geralt tells him quietly, voice still slurred. 

"I'd believe that more if you could speak clearly. Or if you could stand on your own."

"There's a ledge somewhere. I could sit," Geralt points out, working harder to take the slur from his voice. He's not sure he can, it's just so much effort and he's exhausted. 

"I found soap," Ciri interrupts quietly. 

"Perhaps towels would have been useful, too," Yennefer sighs. 

"I can find those, too." 

"Let's get clean first," Yennefer suggests, taking some of the flakes and working it into her hair.

"Geralt where's the ledge?" Dandelion prompts. 

"Just feel around for it," he grouses. 

"Here. I found it. Ciri. I'll help him. Clean yourself up, I'll manage with him for now." 

"Alright," she says dubiously. Geralt tries to move through the water on his own, but is immensely glad when Dandelion moves over and pulls him into a tight hug before walking them both back to the ledge. "Try not to drown before I get back," he kisses Geralt's temple gently. 

With a soft grunt of annoyance Geralt tries to ignore how much his pride stings. Dandelion is back quickly, and starts immediately working soap into Geralt's hair, and then his neck and shoulders. He's more concerned about the blood and vomit than anything else. "Close your eyes, I don't have magic witcher vision and it's dark. I'm going to get the blood off you." 

Geralt obeys, patiently waiting as gentle fingers clean his face. He doesn't mind the water being gently poured over his head, he knows Dandelion is only using his hands to cup it, there's no buckets. It's just getting a little at a time. The troubadour moves in closer when he's done, standing between Geralt's legs and holding him tightly. Geralt allows his head to droop and rest on Dandelion's shoulder. His arms are held up by the water and the bard, loosely resting on his shoulders. 

"I am glad you're alright," Dandelion kisses the side of his head. He can still feel Geralt's muscles occasionally spasm, and starts gently massaging his shoulders and back, working his way down. "Easy, I've got you. Just relax," Dandelion reassures him. He continues working his way down all the way to the witcher's knees. To go any lower he'd have to dislodge him or pull up his leg and he feels just leaving Geralt to be as comfortable as possible is a greater kindness than continuing the massage.

Yennefer glides over once she's clean. "Let me see him," she tells Dandelion softly. He glances at her, prepared to tell her no until he sees the genuine pain and worry in her eyes. "Geralt, can you sit up a minute?" He asks, pressing another gentle kiss against his head. 

Rather than give a verbal answer, Geralt pulls himself upright with a soft groan. Yennefer looks at him, her lip trembles for just a second before she presses them together tightly. "I'm alright," he mumbles. 

"Your eyes don't quite focus." She runs fingers through his hair gently and steps in closer. 

"I think," his voice trembles ever so slightly, "I think whatever happened broke my leg again Yen." 

"It didn't," she promises him. She can read his panic, and knows he doesn’t believe her. Determined to placate him, she kisses his cheek. "Here, I'll check,"' she puts her hands on his thigh, hatred coursing through her that Vilgefortz did this to him. The muscle is rigid. "It's just a cramp." 

"Yen," he protests unsteadily. 

"I promise," she says in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. "I promise it's just a cramp. Probably triggered by the seizure. I think I can work it out some. It's going to hurt, try and keep your muscles relaxed," she warns him and begins to knead the tortured flesh. He hisses in pain, and Dandelion is at his side in an instant, soap suds still trailing down his temple. He hadn't even finished rinsing his hair. 

"Ciri, could you find towels now, please?" He asks quietly, thinking Geralt might not want her to see him suffering. "Easy, you big lummox," the poet chides gently. "The lady said to relax, not tighten up all over. You'll just make it worse." Running a hand up and down Geralt's back, he murmurs in his ear nonstop, encouraging him to relax and loosen up. "That's a good lad," he says stupidly. 

Geralt drops his head back down to the bard's shoulder and Dandelion can hear every hiss of his breath, and it pains him to know how much it must hurt that Geralt can't hide it. 

He ignores the occasional splash of water against his shoulder. Geralt's hair is still wet and it's probably just dripping. 

"Is there anything for teeth?" Geralt mumbles. "My mouth tastes of blood and vomit. What happened to me Dandelion? Yen?" 

"Just rinse your mouth with some water,” Dandelion tells him impatiently. “We thought you were sick, somehow. Then you stopped waking up at all, and we brought you here. Yennefer figured out it was a curse and she went and murdered the chap and you got better. Well. You did have a seizure first, as you know. And then you threw up some. Not much to put into a ballad if I'm being honest."

"A curse?"

"He was paid," Yennefer picks up the tale. "He was draining your life force. It was supposed to work quicker and be much nastier. But it seems your Witcher genes kept you safe and helped you hold out. Rather than waste away he just drained your energy. And then, well, it would have kept going. He had quite a few nasty traps I had to deal with to kill him. He didn't hold out long under questioning, either. All in all a bad investment. When I find who hired him I will make quick work of him, too." She stops her work on Geralt's leg. "There you are. I'll make up a salve to work in, if you lock up again it'll help with far less pain. As it is, I expect you'll be miserably sore tomorrow. I'm sorry." 

"I am, too," he mutters. 

"I suppose I'll make it up to you, after Ciri is off to bed." 

"Hm?" He arches a brow slightly.

She kisses him for a little, until he pulls back. He's watching the stairwell and she knows Ciri is on her way back. He's not concerned or ashamed Ciri might know the three of them are sleeping together. He's not remotely concerned she should see them kissing, but he'd prefer that be the most she sees. Yennefer kisses his cheek, "you need a shave." 

He holds up a hand to take hers and she allows it, letting him rub his cheek against the back of her hand for a second before she kisses his forehead and pulls free again. He lets her, and she meets Ciri at the edge of the pool. "My strong one," she says affectionately when she sees the girl not only has towels but some medicaments and broth. 

"Here, Geralt," Ciri holds out a cup. "Vesemir says to drink this. Well, all of it, and end with the broth to build up your strength. He says it'll also help the pain." 

He takes it with a shaky hand and downs it. She's brought a few things. He knows he's to take it all and he knows what Vesemir will do if he doesn't. 

"No," Yennefer says quietly. "He's not your master anymore." For all she doesn't stop him from taking the elixirs, even when he gags at the taste of one. Vesemir wouldn't kill or incapacitate him. Not anymore. He's passed the trials. 

"Did you eat, Ciri?" She asks. 

"Yes. Lambert had saved me some food. He says there's more waiting if you and the poet want," she tells her. "They've given us a different room to sleep in. Well, it's for you and whoever you choose, but I don't intend to sleep in my old room tonight. I'm sleeping with Geralt."

"So you shall," Yennefer agrees soothingly. 

"I'm alright, Ciri," Geralt reassures her. 

"He's already much better," Dandelion agrees earnestly. The witcher's words are clearer and his pupils seem more even in the flickering light of the torch. "He'll be back to teaching you how to wield that sword just as he does, soon enough." He gently touches Geralt's shoulder, checking for any more trembling. "We can bring the tray up," Dandelion adds, watching Geralt finish the broth. "And we'll get him into bed. Why don't you go rest? You'll need your strength in the morning." 

"We'll be up soon enough," Yennefer promises. 

Geralt meets her eyes, and she moves closer. He stands up and moves to the lip of the pool and cups her cheek. "I'll be alright, I just need a little more time. Go to bed, we'll join you soon enough," he promises. She nods and leans down enough he can kiss her forehead and smooth her hair once. When she doesn't even make a move to leave he gently yanks a lock of her hair. "I'm still cold, the curse took a toll," he tells her softly once he realizes she wants a reason he can't go with her. "Vesemir will want you up and training, go get some sleep. We'll be there soon," he reassures her. She nods, gives him a strange look, and heads up the stairs. He waits until he can't hear her anymore, head cocked to the side. 

Yen moves in close, kissing his shoulder. He turns to her, kissing her deeply. Unsurprised when Dandelion slips to his side, he tips his head to the side to kiss him, too. 

"You're shaking again," Yen pulls away a little. 

"For different reasons, now," he admits. He feels much stronger now, and the shaking is because Dandelion is doing something with his fingertips that is making it very hard for him to think. Especially with Yen ghosting her hands over him, too. Four hands are much harder to contend with than two. He feels even more sensitive than usual, considering his heightened senses and abilities. Glad that the elixirs are already working, he's not sure he could stand the contact if they weren't. Yennefer continues to taunt with barely there touches as Dandelion's hands stay busy. The delicate touches he uses continue to make Geralt squirm. 

She kisses Geralt, enjoying the way his breathing changes. He's practically quivering under her touch, and she finds she doesn't mind that Dandelion is causing some of that. She had thought initially she would be jealous, even though she had decided to try sharing for Geralt's sake. But it's almost more fun the way he comes undone between them. Not that she wants to share him with the irksome bard every time. Perhaps she'll have him to herself for a bit some time soon. The bard has had him a few times she knows. 

Geralt inhales sharply and hums low in his throat as Dandelion stops teasing quite so much. He still feels raw from his ordeal, and there's a mix of pain with all the pleasure. He's not sure how long he'd hold out between the two of them anyway, much less feeling the way he does. 

Yennefer, always the mind reader, keeps her touch gentle. The only sound in the room is the slapping of the water and their breathing. 

Geralt lasts much longer than he'd supposed, the two of them trapping him between them and drawing out of him so much more than he'd imagined was possible. Spent, he clings to Yen as she strokes his hair. Dandelion is out and drying himself off.

"Go on, off you go, too," Yen tells him. "You need to rest." 

"You didn't feel that way a few moments before," he mumbles into her shoulder. 

"You needed that, to remind you there was more than pain. Come, my hands are wrinkling in the water. We'll get you dry and into bed. Ciri is waiting, probably anxiously awake."

Geralt grunts in agreement and pulls himself from the pool. He still feels shaky and extremely tired. He takes the towel offered by Dandelion and dries himself perfunctorily. He decides he only needs pants and tugs them on, crumpling the rest of his clothes as he picks them up and starts up the stairs. 

Dandelion accompanies him, Yennefer a bit behind, taking her time to dry off and change. By the time Geralt finds their rooms he's seeing stars and swaying on his feet, too exhausted to keep going. He'd decided if it was the wrong room he would use his shirt as a pillow and sleep on the floor.

Ciri pulls the covers back, shifting into the middle of the pitiful mattress. Yennefer had been right and the girl hadn't slept at all, for all she was exhausted, too. Geralt manages to stagger over to her, heave himself into the bed and curl around her before he passes out. Dandelion tuts and shakes his head before sliding in behind the Witcher. With Ciri's help he fixes the blankets and falls asleep with his face pressed into Geralt's shoulder blades. 

By the time Yennefer makes it into the room, the other three are asleep. Geralt doesn't so much as twitch when she joins them in bed, putting an arm over Ciri and Geralt. She touches his cheek gently, and then allows herself to fall asleep. 

None of them wake before the sun is at high noon. Dandelion is alert before Ciri, and goes in search of food and a privy. The Witcher girl is next, slipping away from Geralt, concerned that he doesn't even stir when she pulls away. The curse had almost killed him, though. Yennefer wakes next, unsurprised to find the Witcher has curled into her, arm over her middle. She smooths his hair and back, running her hands over him. He's not unnaturally chilled, his heartbeat is strong and steady, and his breathing even. He's just exhausted. Her poor Witcher. After kissing his forehead she pulls away to go find the others. All Geralt does is roll onto his stomach, and dislodge some blankets in the process. She fixes them, shaking her head. She needs to make a balm for his leg. Hopefully before he wakes. The fear in his voice had angered her deeply, when he'd thought it was broken again. No one should make him afraid like that. Leaving him asleep alone, she hopes he won't wake until at least one of them returns. Or if he does that he'll know he wasn't abandoned. 

Dandelion is finishing a late lunch with the other witchers, watching as Lambert talks to Ciri about her training. He sees Yennefer walk in, "Still asleep?" He asks, since she seems calm. 

"Utterly exhausted. You might want to bring some food for when he wakes," she assumes the troubadour will attend to the Witcher rather than risk him waking alone. Her assumption turns out to be true, and she watches him stack a few items onto a plate and pick up a jug of water before sauntering off to attend their lover. Ravenous, Yennefer eats first, carefully asking about what herbs and unguents she might find in the castle. She has no real interest in the secrets of the witchers, she just needs supplies to make a balm for Geralt's leg. Vesemir is ever suspicious but agrees to get her what she needs after discovering the reason for all her probing. Relieved to not have to fight or be more subtle about her intentions, she allows herself to be taken to their workroom once she's finished her meal. 

Geralt wakes up to Dandelion's soft talking, utterly confused as to what's happening and where he is. Looking around in bewilderment he sees the bard watching him, now silent. Unable to piece back the words he'd heard that woke him, he knows the bard is upset from his expression. Hungry, he sits up slowly, his entire body aches abominably. "What's happened?" He asks, looking around in confusion. "Where's Ciri?" He demands, a note of panic in his voice and he struggles to stand and falls. 

"Ciri is fine!" Dandelion leaps to his feet to help Geralt up and reassure him at the same time. "She's with Lambert. Inside the castle. She won't leave to properly train until she knows you're up and about." He ignores the groan the Witcher makes as he gets back on his feet. "Sit," he chides, feeling little spasms run through his friend. "You aren't fully recovered." 

"What happened?" He asks, rubbing at his head. His whole body is so stiff he feels he can barely move. Then his stomach growls, practically begging for food. 

Dandelion passes him a plate with meat, potatoes, and bread, and watches as Geralt does his best to choke it all down in record time. 

"Do you not remember?" Geralt had seemed lucid multiple times after Yen had broken the curse. 

"I don't know. I hurt all over," he admits miserably. Once the Witcher has finished all the food, Dandelion deems it safe to get within range.

"You truly don't remember?"

With a quick shake of his head, Geralt shrugs. "I recall pain. I think I recall a bath… my leg hurts, Dandelion. I should like to cut it off to make the pain stop," he whispers. 

"Well don't do that, Yennefer is making something up for your leg right now. You got cursed, and fell off your horse. We tied you on behind Ciri and brought you here. Yennefer broke the bloody curse, but it had some nasty after effects. You were quite sick. Ciri kept you from dashing your brains out and you gave us both quite a scare. Then yes, we gave you a bath and cleaned you up. In our defense you were covered in vomit, blood and piss. Once Ciri was off to bed we did more. I don't think we would have if we'd known you wouldn't recall it. Feels sort of wrong somehow. You did enjoy it, if that helps." 

Geralt rubs at his face, hand scraping over his stubble. Dandelion gently touches his mangled ear, half shot off by an arrow during the search for Ciri. Geralt tongues a spot in his mouth where a tooth used to be, and sighs. "I'm getting old, Dandelion." He feels awful and even more hideous than usual. Which makes it sting all the more they'd told him he had good features. He's well aware of how sharp he looks, and how unpleasant his smile is. How pale his skin is, not unlike that of a corpse. 

Any of his companions would argue that when he smiles naturally, from actual pleasure, it's quite sweet. It's the smile he learned as a Witcher, full of menace and dislike that's so unpleasant. The other smile, the one leftover from when he was human, gentles his face and they can see remnants of the boy he'd been before all the mutations. It's so unassuming and rare, and achingly sweet. 

"You're just having a bad few days, a little rest, regular meals, and convenient sex should perk you right up," the bard teases gently. 

"I hurt too much for that last part," Geralt complains, shaking his head in disgust. 

"You won't always. That seizure was quite nasty, I'm not surprised you're sore all over. Now that we've light, let's look at that knee that troubles you so." 

Geralt obligingly strips out of his breeches and allows Dandelion to look over his leg. He pulls the blanket over his groin in case someone walks in. Not to mention he wasn't lying about his disinterest in fucking. He hisses in pain when the bard gently squeezes his calf and then thigh, biting through his lip rather than scream. If he'd known how bad it would hurt he wouldn't have let the troubadour touch him. Dandelion is simply thankful the Witcher didn't kick him. He gently touches, trying to find if one spot is worse or if any of it is better. He gives up when nothing seems to be less horrid and the witcher is trembling violently.

"Geralt I'm sorry. I meant to help, I know in the past massaging it helped. But you can't even tolerate the slightest touch right now. I should have stopped sooner, why didn't you say something? I never wanted to hurt you," the bard says miserably. When Geralt doesn't respond, Dandelion gets up to look at him. Both hands are pressed hard over the witcher's face and he is shaking violently. Horrified, Dandelion didn't know witchers could cry. When he sees blood on Geralt's neck he isn't sure if the tears are bloody or if it's something else and pulls one hand away from his face. "Ah, you've gone and bitten through your lip," he sighs softly. Shifting them so that he can hold his companion, and attempt to soothe him, he hums softly in-between apologies and reassurances. The shaking slowly eases, and Geralt curls more into Dandelion, feeling stupid but hurting so much he doesn't care. He doubts any of the other witchers would understand and he sincerely hopes none of them come into the room. 

Yennefer comes in as Geralt is almost calm. "I have something for the pain," she tells him. Even without trying she's picked up the agony and shame several paces from the door. He doesn't move and neither does Dandelion. "I'm going to start with your leg, let me know if it helps," she says gently but matter of factly. She frees his leg from the blanket carefully, mindful of the pain. She doesn't mock him for pressing into the bard harder when she starts. She can feel what he feels. Applying the balm starting at his ankle she slowly works her way up in soft long strokes, going from his heel up the back of his leg to his knee. Then another long stroke from ankle over his shin up to his knee. She knows the instant the balm starts working because he goes limp, a choking sob ripping itself from his chest. "I'll make more," she reassures him, working her way up his thigh and backside. She then works her way up his other leg, over his back, chest, arms, shoulders, and neck before stopping. She knows he aches all over. He shivers pleasantly when she's finished, mostly blessedly numb. He pulls on pants not a moment too soon because Ciri comes in with another tray of elixirs from Vesemir. 

Geralt downs them as quickly as possible, hoping they will help him to recover quicker. Some of them taste of healing herbs. Ciri comes over to look him over, now that they truly have time. He has new scars. The blood vessels in his eyes had burst the night before not to mention he's just bit through his lip, it's still bleeding. Further inspection shows her even worse injuries. He's missing about half his ear, and she feels her eyes well with tears. She'd thought he wasn't coming. That he'd never come for her. She'd been so embittered. And he had been coming for her the whole time. And he'd suffered so much. They'd both suffered so much. 

She sobs when he touches the scar on her cheek, finally letting himself notice. It breaks something free in her when tears spill over his cheeks, her pain becoming his. She clings to him, sobbing as he holds her. His tears soak her shirt, and she knots her fingers into his. Yennefer and Dandelion carefully curl around them, linking arms as the white wolf and his cub grieve. Yen isn't so sure they shouldn't leave the wolf alone with his cub, but she knows that he takes comfort in their presence after catching a few stray thoughts. 

She stays with her arms around them until Geralt and Ciri are ready to break apart. Dandelion shifts enough the girl can go wash her face and Yen takes one of the towels from the night before to dip the corner in some water from the washbasin before coming back to gently wipe blood and tears from Geralt's cheeks and chin. "You look truly fearsome with your eyes all red and blood all over your mouth and teeth," she assures him, delicately teasing. "The good news is, it will all heal and you'll go back to looking as you did. Maybe a little too sharp, a little inhuman, but to those that love you, plenty handsome." She kisses the bridge of his nose. Cleaned up, he blinks at her owlishly. She kisses him gently. "Go back to sleep Geralt, Ciri is safe and with you again." 

He nods, head heavy on his neck and drops bonelessly to the lumpy mattress. Ciri crawls in beside him, seamlessly filling herself in against him. 

Dandelion watches them for a few moments before getting his lute, quill, and paper and leaving the room to go make noise elsewhere. Yen smooths Ciri's hair down a few times before choosing to go work on more of the unguent for Geralt's leg. No one should be out to harm them here in the keep. 

Geralt sleeps heavily until his stomach wakes him growling. He and Ciri rouse themselves long enough to get some food and return to bed. He talks to her for what feels like hours as she plays with his hair. He explains and apologizes and begs forgiveness from her. She reassures him it's forgiven. She tells him of her experiences and watches his eyes burn and jaw clench. Sees the pain at how helpless he is to fix any of her hurts. She tells him of Mistle, and so many other things. She knows first they kill the sorcerer, and then they will clear out the rest. She falls asleep, her tears used up. He stays awake a bit longer, vengeance written on his heart. Exhaustion claims him all the same and he sleeps for hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I'm going to go back in and add the umlauts to Coen's name, but today isn't that day. Sorry. And apparently arguably he's very grumpy in this chapter. 
> 
> Should be some fun developments coming up at the keep. 
> 
> Your comments mean a lot to me, and it's nice to think anyone's reading this. Thank you guys for the encouragement. Makes me want to keep going.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to ruusverd, without you I don't know what I'd do.  
> Thanks to those you who take the time to comment. It's a sign maybe this isn't a huge waste of time :P I appreciate y'all. Please don't stop. <3

Geralt is half awake when he hears an indignant scream. It’s his bard. While he can’t make out the words, he knows full well something is wrong. He leaps out of bed, snagging his sword up from the chair and racing down the hallway. Dandelion is still shouting by the time he’s dressed, and Geralt follows the sound of his irritated screeches, unsure if they’re under attack or if he’s made himself an enemy of one of the other witchers. Heart racing, at least for a witcher, he makes his way down several hallways before he sees a congregation of his fellows surrounding the deeply unhappy bard. Dandelion is gesticulating wildly and suddenly some of the noises he’s making start to make sense. 

“She’s a young girl! She’s a princess, fuck it all, what in hell do you think you’re doing to her?!” 

He hears a thump, a soft whoosh of breath, and some soft swearing before Lambert urges Ciri back onto the Pendulum. She’d clearly fallen again. 

“What madness is this!? How many times can you expect her to fall and injure herself?! Are you trying to kill her?!” 

“Dandelion, shut up,” Geralt says, wading into the mess. 

“Oh-ho look who’s on his feet,” Eskel grins. 

“Get bent,” Geralt snaps. Because now that Eskel’s said something he remembers how absolutely awful he feels. “We all went through it, we all lived, Dandelion. She’ll be fine, she’s trained here before.” 

“She is bruised, Geralt! They are bruising our-” he freezes, and Geralt does, too. 

“She will heal. Better a bruise now than a beheading later.” 

When Lambert steps in to shoo them off Geralt bares his teeth and steps forward. Coën simply laughs at them both. Geralt glares at him, too. 

“Oh, leave off, Geralt. In your present condition you aren’t fit to fight the weakest monster.” He shoves the other witcher’s shoulder lightly, baring his teeth a little. 

“I have beaten you every time-”

“Not every time,” Lambert butts in helpfully. Geralt snarls at him. 

Dandelion is forcibly made to understand why they all wear medallions with wolves on them. It’s much like a pack jostling a foreign member, or perhaps a returning one found after being lost. Checking for changes and reordering their place in the pack. It also makes him remember that being a witcher, this training, and these people are part of the reason Geralt has lost so much of his faith in himself. These are the people who taught him to feel he isn’t worthy of being loved. Not that he thinks the witchers don’t care for each other. There’s just a certain forced inhumanity to it. 

“I will break you in pieces,” Geralt growls, pushing Coën away from him. 

“Oh, thank Melitele,” Dandelion mumbles when he sees Vesemir approaching. That should put a stop to all this. 

“Lambert, get your eyes back on Ciri, dammit girl watch your footwork!” Vesemir snaps. He pauses to watch the witcher girl for a few minutes. “Flow with it! Get your bloody emotions in check girl!” 

Lambert quickly steps back to keep an eye on their girl. Dandelion realizes that’s the competition; that’s why Geralt is being tetchy with them. They want Ciri as theirs, their witcher girl. All of Kaer Morhen’s witcher girl. And Geralt wants her as his, his and Yen’s and Dandelion’s. Perhaps, before when he’d been at a loss, turning her over to the keep had seemed the right thing, but not now. 

Coën jostles against Geralt again, grinning at him. Geralt shoves back, and Dandelion notices the slight tremble in his hands and leg. He’s in pain. He hasn’t had long enough to recover from the curse. But he sees no way to stop this if Vesemir isn’t going to. 

“Good to see you on your feet boy,” Vesemir tells Geralt gruffly, but somewhat fondly. Geralt forces an odd smile with a slight dip of his head. Acknowledging the pack master, Dandelion notes. How had he not seen things like this before? 

“Glad to be on my feet,” Geralt agrees blandly. Coën nudges his bad leg, and Geralt staggers a bit. Eskel is watching carefully, stepping behind Vesemir. Geralt bares his teeth at Coën, and then holds out a hand to Dandelion. Ciri will be fine with Lambert, and no one will do anything to her. Other than bruise her a bit. Coën kicks at him again when Geralt takes a step towards the bard to meet him halfway. Dandelion reaches a hand out to hold his witcher’s, and to help support him if the others are going to go for his injuries. 

“Can’t push past the pain?” Coën grins, but there’s nothing friendly in it. 

“It’s been one day,” Geralt shrugs. “I’m on my feet. More than I can say about you after you lost to that wraith, what, how many decades back?” 

Coën snarls and shoves at him lightly again. Geralt chooses instead to nuzzle Dandelion, and the bard steps in closer, slipping an arm around his middle. He can feel his witcher trembling a little. Pain, fatigue, not fear. It’s some sort of challenge, Dandelion knows. Geralt, going off and forming his own pack, it’s some kind of break or violation of some kind. Witchers are supposed to be alone. Or just around other witchers. When Coën moves in again Eskel makes as if to move to stop it. Just as Yennefer rounds a corner. 

“What the fuck is going on?” she asks, able to see that Geralt is leaning on Dandelion a bit. “Why is he out of bed?” she snaps. Usually the witchers get along fine, so something has changed. Dandelion looks at her, meeting her gaze and her violet eyes flash. She’s caught up now. “He was just cursed yesterday! Why the fuck is he moving around?” 

“His little bard was shrieking about the witcher girl, and so he got up on his own to investigate. We all did,” Eskel explains, more willing to put up with Yennefer’s questions. Vesemir watches, not inclined to involve himself overmuch. 

“Came running when called,” Coën adds. Yennefer’s eyes flash and she steps up into his space, looking up at him. He steps back from her and she spits on the floor at his feet. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you think is going to happen here, but it’s not. Dandelion, take Geralt back to bed. He shouldn’t be up this long yet. Not for another day or two.” 

“If he was stronger, he’d just push past the pain,” Coën grins, the pock marks on his face twisting garishly. 

“Two days, he meets you in a sparring match, and you can see how much he doesn’t push past,” Eskel suggests. 

Geralt nods. That’s reasonable enough. He feels almost himself. But Coën knows about his leg. They all do, he’s been favoring it. “Spar with me tomorrow,” he tells Eskel, but it’s a question. 

“Midmorning. Barehanded.” 

Geralt nods again. He allows Yennefer to step to his other side and put an arm around him. He nuzzles her next, glaring at the others, marking his territory.

Dandelion would be amused if the situation was less tense. He’d seen them all get along before. There was an easy camaraderie and comfort they had with each other. And while certain witchers might have had choice words for Yennefer, others hadn’t minded her. Or that Geralt was taken with her. The bard had wintered with Geralt at the keep before, and they had enjoyed his singing and tales as much as anyone. Even if Geralt had tried to correct his stories and make them more accurate -and far more boring. They’d just told him to shove off and they’d kept drinking and joking around. And by all accounts they had been quite taken with Ciri and happy to train her and take her in. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Yennefer asks when they’re back in the room, then chants a few words and flicks her fingers, casting a spell around the door. 

“Sound barrier,” Geralt tells the bard, when he notes his questioning look. He groans miserably and sits on the edge of the lumpy bed. He massages his thigh awkwardly and Dandelion takes over without a word. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I feel as though Dandelion caused it.” 

“I didn’t. It’s a shift, things are shifting. These people were everyone and everything to you. And now they aren’t. It’s a power play,” the bard argues. 

“And you, for some stupid reason, agreed to throw yourself in a ring with the one who was the most interested in antagonizing you!” 

The witcher looks at Yennefer blandly, leaning back while Dandelion works his leg. “Just kiss me,” he tells her. Her face softens, and she sits down next to him and kisses his cheek. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he points out. 

She smiles at him, and then kisses him the way he’d wanted her to, soft lips slightly parted as they slide across his own. He wraps his arms around her and drops them both to the bed so that she has to rest against his chest. Then he frees his arm to stroke Dandelion’s hair, inviting him to join. The bard doesn’t raise himself any higher, but he does start working Geralt’s trousers loose and pulling them down. Geralt groans deep in his chest when Dandelion kisses up the inside of his thigh, his mouth leaving a trail of honeyed fire which curls lazily into his muscles as he teases. The bard lingers playfully until Geralt shifts his leg over Dandelion’s shoulder, trying to urge him on. 

Dandelion laughs, pressing his face into the witcher’s leg, trying to muffle the sound. He knows exactly what Geralt was trying to do and can’t help but be amused.

“I was getting there,” he hums pleasantly to Geralt, who pauses in kissing Yen long enough to huff in disgust. Yennefer slips a hand down to palm him, giving him a few gentle consolation strokes. He settles back down with a contented noise in the back of his throat, closing his eyes, only to open them again as she stops to lightly swat the bard upside the head. 

“We may not have much time. Stop wasting it.” She admonishes, helping Geralt get her skirts out of the way so he can slide a hand up her leg, seeking the heat of her. Geralt rolls subtly beneath her as Dandelion finally gets down to business, his lashes fluttering on his cheeks. As she watches this, she has to admit that she sort of likes this system where she has to do very minimal work to get the benefits. If anything, it seems like she could leave Dandelion to do most of the heavy lifting and still get something out of it. 

Judging by the amount of humming she’s hearing, the bard is enjoying himself just fine. Geralt’s breathing changes, and he forgets to kiss her as much, but his hand keeps moving and that’s what matters most to her right then. She doesn’t try and split his attention and settles in closer to him so they’re both more comfortable, enjoying the rolling of his fingers and his increasingly ragged breathing. His muscles strain and his back arches slightly and the bard moves up his body to kiss him more thoroughly. He settles his body between Geralt’s legs and teases him with his fingers. 

The witcher knows what’s being asked and nods a bit. Hears the cork pop on something but doesn’t see it and smells lilac and gooseberries. He blinks a bit, in surprise, but enjoys the result. Yen smirks, rolling her hips languidly as she enjoys his reaction to the scent. He spreads his legs a bit to make it easier for Dandelion to ease in, and the bard moves slow enough that he has more than enough time to adjust. Yennefer is content to kiss Geralt off and on, letting the bard seek his own release without interference. She notes when he manages to do something different, because Geralt starts to shift again, and he squeezes her hand. Geralt’s rolling and flickering fingers become increasingly intent, until finally, a warm wave washes over her, leaving her gasping.

Later, when the bard collapses against him, Geralt makes a protest sound. Laughing breathlessly, Dandelion rallies and manages to find the right rhythm again for just long enough. Geralt’s hand tightens on Yennefer’s as he cries out softly, shuddering beneath them. After, satisfied and spent, Dandelion curls into the witcher’s side. Geralt wraps an arm around each of his lovers.

“We should clean up before Ciri comes back,” Geralt mumbles, a plaintive note in his voice. He doesn’t want to get up, and eyes Dandelion hopefully.

“Hm. Lazy witcher,” Dandelion says affectionately, kissing his shoulder. He pulls away and finds a cloth to wipe them down with. He cleans himself up first and then fixes his pants. Then he tosses Geralt the cloth and smiles when Geralt glares at him. Yen sits up, primly ignoring them both as she rearranges her skirts. Within seconds the small group looks as though nothing had happened between them.

“How’s the leg?” Yennefer asks, more focused on that. He needs to be strong enough to hold his own against Coen. His leg needs to heal. 

“It’ll hold,” he tells her, standing up and testing his weight. He needs to eat more, needs to keep taking his elixirs. It’ll be fine. Otherwise he has no business taking Ciri anywhere and thinking he can protect her. 

“Well get back to sleep for a bit,” she tells him. “You shouldn’t have gotten up when you did anyway. Get some rest, Geralt. Tomorrow you’ve signed yourself up for a beating.” 

“I feel much better already, if I improve as much overnight as I did last night, I’ll be ready. I can hold my own.” 

“He’s had time to improve, too, Geralt, don’t get cocky.” 

“I need to eat.” 

“I’ll go get some food,” Dandelion offers. “You get into bed and heal up like the nice sorceress is telling you to. I’m peckish myself. And then I might join you for a nap,” he says. 

“I have things to do,” Yennefer looks at him, almost affronted. “I won’t have time to cuddle up to you and stroke your ego all afternoon. You’ve got Dandelion for that.” 

Geralt snorts but gets back into the bed. He’s exhausted again, and he hopes he’s not so exhausted he’ll sleep through Dandelion coming back into the room with food. 

Yennefer kisses his cheek and leaves, he knows she’s been working on several spells and some kind of research, but he hasn’t been able to ask her much about it. In fact, he only knows because she smells of herbs and old books every time she’s left and come back. He wonders how Vesemir feels about her setting up a workshop. Even a temporary one. 

**

Alone in the room, the sky tells him it’s near dawn. He has no idea where Dandelion is. The bard likes to sleep late, usually. Yennefer, it depends. Ciri is training with Lambert, he heard the knock that morning before dawn. 

With a furtive glance around he picks up the looking glass Yennefer left out. It’s a small one, and he holds it a few inches from his face. He can see the scars, up close. Geralt pulls a face and almost puts the glass down. What an idiotic thing to do. But the sun is rising. Supposedly his piss-yellow eyes are gold in the light. At least that’s how he thinks of them. He can’t remember what color they were before. Or what color his hair was, but it had had some curl to it. Before the potions burned away everything he was and everything he could have been and turned him into something else. 

The Keep is home, he feels a measure of safety here, but also constant resentment. He hadn’t asked for this. They’d trained him into it, and he’d taken pride in his abilities, and eventually he’d wanted to do it. It had been unbearably awful. He’d thought he was dying every time they put him through further tests. Then, when it was over, they’d put him through more because nothing was killing him. What else could they try? And of course, don’t feel. Don’t let yourself feel. Don’t attack in anger. Don’t react, put it all away, take control. You must have control. 

Lost in his thoughts, he almost drops the mirror. He catches it and looks up at the sun rising over the forest. It is beautiful. It was worth getting out of bed, even if his body still aches. Curious, and ashamed, he tips the mirror up again, studying himself in the sunlight. Surprised, he touches his cheek just under his eye, they do sort of glow in the light. He hadn’t realized. He’s not so sure about his hair looking golden in the sun, but it does seem kind of nice, almost blonde, almost a human color. 

The door creaks open and he spins, shoving the mirror onto the table amongst Yennefer’s cosmetics. Deeply ashamed, he’s thankful the mutations stop him from blushing. At least something good came out of that nightmare. 

“You’re up. Are you alright?” Yennefer asks. “You didn’t wake up when I did, I was going to come see if you were ready to eat. Or at least able to be woken.” 

“Is he awake now?” Dandelion asks, pushing up against her since she paused in the door. “Oh,” he says quietly, the sun behind Geralt, creating a soft gold halo from his hair. “Oh, that’s stunning,” he says softly. “Every so often, ever so rarely, I wish I had focused some of my education on painting. Oh Geralt, if you could see this.” 

The witcher shifts away from the window, embarrassed. “Don’t mock me,” he grouses. “At least not this early. The sun’s hardly all the way into the sky.” 

“I’m not,” Dandelion protests, stepping in around Yennefer to touch Geralt’s cheek and gently kiss him. “You seem like you’re feeling better, at the very least,” he smiles gently. 

Geralt kisses him back. He looks over at Yennefer when he hears a clatter. She’s rummaging through her bottles and bundles and he has no idea what she’s looking for. He slings his arms over Dandelion’s shoulders, deciding a lengthy good morning kiss sounds wonderful. When the bard pushes into him a bit, Geralt slips his hands lower to hold his hips. 

“Sit,” Yennefer says suddenly, pushing them apart and mumbling something in Elder as she mixes herbs in a small mortar. Geralt grumbles a bit but does as he’s asked. So far, any time she’s asked him to do something with no explanation, nothing bad has happened to him. Once, she’d been creating a sort of charm that had kept him from getting hurt when he went after a pack of drowners. It hadn’t lasted the entire fight, but it had certainly saved his life a few times. Another time she’d also cast a spell that revealed poisons in food because she hadn’t trusted the sorcerer he’d had to go visit. She’d been right to cast the spell. His food had been drugged. So, when she tells him to sit, he sits. 

Dandelion stands there, staring and Geralt reaches up and tugs him by the hand. The tug is perhaps harder than he meant it to be, and he barely has time to adjust his grip on the bard’s hand to tug him into his lap and catch him, rather than dash him against the stone floor. Dandelion squeaks when he loses his balance and falls in a heap into Geralt’s lap.

“You great brute,” Dandelion lightly hits his shoulder. “There are other less surprising, ways of sweeping me off my feet. Shame on you,” he follows the words with a kiss. Not paying Yennefer any mind, he shifts in Geralt’s lap, and the witcher moans faintly. 

“Don’t start that now,” Yennefer snaps, “save it for later.” She yanks Dandelion by the back of his doublet. He flails a minute, and almost falls but Geralt catches him by the arm and steadies him. Then assists him into his own spot on the floor. 

“What are we doing, Yen?” he asks quietly. 

“Showing you something, I hope,” she answers, still working away for a few minutes longer, and chanting a few words he doesn’t recognize. He thought he spoke Elder passably well, but that phrase escapes him. Dandelion looks as confused as he does. “Join hands,” she tells them before holding out hers. They do. As always, Yennefer’s skin is cool against his, and Dandelion is warm and calloused.

“Is this going to be stupid?” Geralt asks her. She squeezes his hand hard and he decides to just be quiet. 

“I’m trying to mix some spells together, stop breaking my concentration,” she tells him. 

He huffs quietly and shares a look with the bard. 

“Dandelion, focus on how you see Geralt, and look him in the eyes. Geralt, look back. Try not to focus, just relax.” 

“This _is_ going to be stupid,” he sighs, but all the same looks over at Dandelion. Bored, he thinks not much will come of this. But the bard’s eyes are a beautiful blue he’s very fond of. Perhaps sex can come of it, later. Bend the bard over the bed… and then he suddenly sees himself. It’s very disconcerting. There’s the sun, creeping up on the horizon, and he sees himself, in his bedroll, covered in dew. The way the light hits the water droplets...he sees himself again, the sun behind him lighting up his hair and making it glow, again, at sunset, eyes like molten gold in the waning sun. An image of himself, eyes closed, chin tipped up, back arched, and he knows what he’s seeing, as he gets bombarded with images of his body, slicked with sweat as he arches in pleasure. Again and again, he sees himself, and feels this warm feeling in his chest. It’s not his feeling, he knows that, it’s what… it’s what Dandelion feels when he sees him. 

“Look at me,” Yennefer tells him quietly, and he does, turning automatically at the sound of her voice. He sees himself in the bath, the way she had, the water slipping over his skin and making it shine in the firelight. Sees himself in the dark, above her, the candles causing the reflective lenses in his eyes to activate, glowing in the dark. Moonlight bathes him in another vision, and he seems to glow like the moon itself. Splattered in blood, face pale, eyes black, but he still feels that same warmth. Sees himself smile, tease, shake his head in bemusement, he sees himself acting just like a normal human. There’s no fear of him, no thoughts that he’s monstrous, just… warmth. He sees himself over her and under her, his face highlighted by candles, or sunlight, or the warmth of a fire, sees himself windswept and outside with her, overlooking the hills...

The door opens and he hardly moves, doesn’t notice when a small hand joins his, breaking his grip away from the bard’s. He turns to look when he hears his name. Green eyes capture his, and he's drawn into images of himself as larger than life. He’s tall, he’s strong, he’s warm, he’s safe. That’s what sticks with him, is that sense of warmth and safety. His appearance is paler than a normal man’s perhaps, but nothing worth noting. His eyes reflect the light in the dark, showing he’s awake, aware, and protecting her. 

“Ciri,” he breathes. This is how she sees him. Strong jaw, proud on his horse, fighting and killing monsters elegantly, cleanly, precisely. He sees himself from her perspective, telling her not to be afraid, teaching her a new strike with a sword, or a new block, or kick, he sees the power she sees. Graceful, fluid, in control. And safe. 

“Where’d the little brat get to?” 

They all start, hands coming apart as they look around, the spell broken. Dandelion leans forward and brushes tears of Geralt’s cheeks, knowing he’d rather die than let another witcher see him in distress. 

“I’m coming!” Ciri calls sweetly, perhaps too sweetly. 

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t know what we were doing, you just joined in.” 

“Well, I found out once I came in, and it was convenient for me to take a break.” 

Coën ducks his head into the door, a bruise appearing rapidly on his cheek. 

“Ciri,” Geralt says in a flat voice. 

“He didn’t duck, hardly my fault.” 

“Get back here, hiding behind the Wolf won’t do you any good,” Coën tells her irritably. 

When Dandelion starts to puff up in defense of their daughter, Geralt puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back a little. Coën won’t hurt Ciri. Not any more so than training hurts any witcher. She’s safe enough. Ciri hops up with an impish smile, kisses Geralt on the cheek, mock curtsies to Yennefer and Dandelion and dashes out the door to go back to her training. Besides, Coën is quite fond of Ciri, under all the grump and bluster and had spent most of her first winter playing games with her after dinner. 

He stares at them, for a few breaths. “I didn’t know that could be done,” he tells Yennefer hoarsely. He blinks rapidly. He hadn’t imagined anyone could see him like that. 

“I wasn’t sure either.” She frowns and gently cups his cheek.

“And if it’d gotten fucked up?” Dandelion asks, suddenly concerned. 

“Nothing would have happened, don’t get your trousers in a twist,” her focus turned to the bard she drops her hand.

“Was that real?” Geralt interrupts. “That was real? Those were real memories? That’s how I look?” His voice catches.

“Yes,” Yennefer tells him simply. 

“Not changed?” He rubs his forearm across his eyes, trying to get his emotions under control.

“No.” 

“Hm.” 

“That’s the best you can do?” Dandelion asks. “I saw it, too, I saw… that was… that would make quite the song, the ability to see yourself as others see you… Oh, to see your own reflection as it truly is, rather than how you see it in the mirror….” 

“Dandelion, shut up.” 

“Well, I never!” he squawks, then takes a look at the witcher. “Are you alright?”

“Why did half your memories of me have to be sexual in nature?” Geralt tries for humor.

“I have waited over two decades to have you in my bed, you think I wouldn’t enjoy how you looked in it? How beautiful you are, especially when you’re less guarded?”

“Yen,” he says thickly, unsure of what to do with what he’s just experienced. It was overwhelming.

“You’re alright,” she reassures him, gently brushing a tear of his cheek. With a tilt of her head she sighs. “No, Geralt, it’s not the magic. It’s you, you’re upset,” she informs him dryly, catching his thoughts. “Yes, you really do look like that, Ciri’s memories might put you in a bit of a more heroic light, but that’s your face. Although you might be a bit shorter than she thinks you are.”

Geralt snorts, trying to recover himself as Yennefer pulls him into a hug. Dandelion awkwardly strokes his arm, eventually just slipping his hand down over Geralt’s wrist to take his hand. He sits there while the witcher struggles with himself and runs his thumb over Geralt’s scarred knuckles.

“It really is okay to let yourself feel things when you need to,” Dandelion says softly. “I know that might not be the way of you immortal beings and all. I just can’t imagine how awful it must be to hold it all inside for centuries.”

“I’m not that old,” Geralt protests weakly, voice cracking in spite of his attempts to smother the urge to cry.

“Blame the curse if you want to,” Yennefer suggests. “Whoever kept telling you how awful you were, that’s really not the case. People hate and fear witchers but you might have noticed they don’t much look at you first. They see your eyes or your swords and then decide how to feel. You don’t much stand out to them until then, so you can’t be as ugly as you thought you were.”

“The doppler-” he protests weakly. Oh, that had been awful.

“You choose to hate your appearance because you think you should. Of course, any time you see a mirror or a reflection of yourself you resent it.”

While he doesn’t break down, something Geralt’s infinitely thankful for, he can’t pull himself away from the circle of Yennefer’s arms, or pull his hand out of Dandelion’s. He’s managed to stop himself from gripping so hard he causes the bard an injury of any kind, but that’s the best he can do. Surprised when Dandelion starts kissing his hand, and then presses in against him and the sorceress to kiss his face, Geralt automatically turns his head into Yennefer’s neck to fend Dandelion off.

He grunts in annoyance when Yennefer joins in, kissing the top of his head and temple. Absolutely disgusted by them being ridiculous, he’s surprised to feel a hand slip up the inside of his leg. He isn’t sure whose it is, he can’t see, his eyes are scrunched shut. Not that it does anything to fend off the truly absolutely ridiculous amount of kisses he’s getting all over his face and neck.

“I was just thinking, perhaps I need more memories of you, especially with the sun coming in through the window just like this, you’re positively glowing. Then next time if we have to recreate this spell again, I’ll have more to share with you,” Dandelion teases.

“Be quiet,” Geralt suggests and shifts to show he’s intrigued by the bard’s offer all the same. Perhaps the kissing could be a lot more. He’d like it to be more, now, since he’s feeling calmer. Yennefer kisses a line down his neck to the collar of his shirt and he shivers.

“I see, you know it doesn’t have to be a silent affair.” 

“But it can be, especially since everyone here has hearing above that of a normal man.” 

“Let them be jealous,” Yennefer tells him. 

“Please,” he asks quietly. 

“Are you ashamed?” Dandelion asks suddenly, running his hand up Geralt’s thigh. 

“No, I just prefer privacy. Who I choose is no one’s concern but mine. I shouldn’t have to share it, justify it, or explain it.” 

Yennefer leans forward, meeting his eyes for a moment before kissing him. He catches her face with his palms, cradling it as he kisses her back, hungry for the love he’d felt earlier. He lets go of her face with one hand to physically tug the bard closer to him, unsure of how to please them both. He’s still sore, his muscles still ache from the curse, but he wants to love them back. They’d taken care of him, done all the heavy lifting the past time or two. 

Dandelion notices the change, and leans into it, decidedly fine with the witcher wanting to ravish him. He hasn’t felt wanted like this in a while. There’s a sense of abandon to the kissing, and the groping and pawing, but it’s not frantic. 

When all is said and done, Geralt finds himself caught between them, barely able to keep up as they work him to completion. He takes them with him, and leans back into the bard, cradling the sorceress close to him. He listens to her ragged breathing blending in with his and Dandelion’s and finds he can’t bear the fact it’s over. 

“Can you go again?” he asks Dandelion, twisting back to look, to kiss, to reassure his partner. 

“Give me a few, but I think I can manage. Can you take another round? We got a little rough,” he says apologetically, kissing the back of Geralt’s neck and all over his shoulders. 

“I’m fine,” he agrees easily. Nothing had hurt, and he’s not bleeding. “Better than fine,” he amends. 

“I just meant, what with you barely walking yesterday, and telling me that you were too miserable for a good toss in the hay.” 

“Well, we aren’t in hay,” Yennefer tells him, kissing Geralt’s neck. “Why aren’t you asking me if I’m up to another round with you?” she asks him, mock offended. 

“I know you are,” he tells her easily. She tosses sweat-damp curls over her shoulder and smiles at him. Hands under her thighs, he hitches her closer, needing to be near her. 

They take their time, enjoying a more luxurious performance. After, they do their best to clean up with a few rags and a washbasin before Geralt leaves for breakfast.

He has Eskel to meet for a round of sparring. He’s not sure how he’s feeling, overall, but certainly much improved from the day before. His leg still aches, his muscles still feel a little weak, but perhaps some of that is because he overused them too soon. Nothing to be done about it now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you hoping Kaer Morhen would bring Geralt some peace, not sure if this qualifies but I do hope you're enjoying reading. 
> 
> Coen doesn't get much personality in the books to speak of beyond being scarred from a pox of some kind, and having permanently burst looking blood vessels in his eyes. He plays with Ciri and seems happy to not be part of the other witcher group in general. His first time staying at Kaer Morhen is also part of Ciri's first year there. Geralt wouldn't know him overly well, and I can see them being somewhat aggressive with each other until they work out a hierarchy or pecking order. He and Lambert are apparently around the same age, and Lambert in the books really isn't all that bad like I hear he is in the games. He's a little rough around the edges, fusses with Ciri about manners and cursing, and cannot stand Triss. Personally I wouldn't like her either. Can't blame him.
> 
> It might actually take me 13 chapters, not 12, to finish this story arc before starting the second. Hope you guys are enjoying it still.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To whoever said they hoped Kaer Morhen would be a peaceful place for Geralt, I am so sorry.
> 
> Fixed. Somehow my doc has different chapter #'s even more so than ao3, where this is my chapter 10. So if you got the wrong one, here we go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Ruusverd for beta'ing this fic. Thank you for letting me ask you the same question 50 different ways and not losing patience. Thank you for somehow knowing everything I need to know about the witcher-verse off the top of your head or within seconds. 
> 
> Thank you to those of you who have been commenting. <3 seriously you guys make my heart happy. Thanks for the kudos. We've got one more chapter left of part 1. 
> 
> Casual remind to anyone reading, I don't use game-lore because I haven't played it.

Eskel limbers up in the training ring, stretching out first his legs, then arms, and then rolling his neck. While he and Geralt have no intention of hurting each other, it’s best to remain loose and ready for anything. 

Achy and tired, Geralt enters the room, and strips out of his shirt. He doesn’t need something for Eskel to catch and use as leverage against him. He starts forcing overwrought muscles to stretch and limber up, feeling better when he’s done. 

“You stink,” Eskel tells Geralt with an amused glance. “Was that the best use of your time before this? I thought you would be meditating or something. Not having a romp with the witch.” He breathes deeper, nostrils flaring as he frowns. “Do you and the bard share the witch? I didn’t think she’d go in for him.” Then he looks at Geralt, eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps, judging from the smell, they’re sharing you?” 

With a shrug, Geralt stretches first one arm, then the other, across his chest before rolling his neck. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t feel. What he does with his body, and who he does it with is his business. No one’s ever cared before, and he sees no reason they should start now. Unsurprised to see Coën and Lambert file in, he is somewhat surprised to see Ciri with them. 

“I plan to tell her everything you’re doing wrong, so she can’t fuck up like you do,” Coën tells him helpfully. 

“Don’t worry Geralt,” Ciri smiles brightly. “You can’t fuck up as often as he has, or he’d be famous like you are.” Her bright grin has Geralt ducking his head to hide a smile. “Good thing he’s not the only one training me,” she simpers, dodging a light slap upside the head with a pirouette. 

“Ciri, stop swearing,” Lambert reminds her. As if his reminders had ever worked before.

“Are we doing this or are you going to stare at the girl?” Eskel asks lazily. “Go until one of us is pinned?” 

“Alright,” Geralt agrees, bringing one knee up against his chest for a second, stretching his leg out. “I’m ready,” he offers, holding out his hands palm up. Eskel slaps them and they reverse, Geralt lightly slapping his hands right after. Then they begin to circle each other.

Geralt is patient, and content to let Eskel make the first move. He’s still miserable from the curse, for all he feels well enough to do this. He has a feeling he will not feel well at all after, however. When Eskel feints he doesn’t even bother to dodge, knowing it’s a feint. 

Dandelion and Yennefer slip in, Vesemir behind them, and Geralt glances away for a moment and Eskel lunges. Unsurprised, he reacts almost instinctively, blocking the blow and striking out in return. He’s blocked easily, and they jump apart for a moment. Then, they come together in a flurry of blows that defy mortal eyes. 

“Shit,” Dandelion says eloquently. Yennefer ignores him, violet eyes focused on her lover. She’s wondering if she has enough balm made up for healing bruises, because Geralt is going to have several all over his arms. The force at which they’re hitting each other isn’t meant to wound, but it’s going to leave marks. Vesemir snorts when Geralt lands a blow, almost sounding disappointed. Yennefer’s eyes flick over for a second, narrow, and then flick back to the match. 

Ciri cheers when Geralt manages to land another strike, and then groans when he takes an elbow to the face. Neither witcher slows down much, the blows don’t bother them. When Geralt staggers, his bad leg throwing him off, Eskel leans in to attack. It’s a ploy, and Geralt uses the other man’s momentum against him, swinging him around and almost throwing him to the dirt. 

“You’re doing better than I expected,” Eskel tells him honestly enough. Geralt gives him a feral smile in response. 

“You’re better than I remember,” he replies in turn. Then grunts in alarm when he has to move quickly to get himself out of the way of a nasty blow. They continue to circle and test each other, and while they manage to land a few strikes here and there, they’re not gaining much ground. Geralt’s stamina is low, and they both know it. If Eskel can wear him out it’s an easy victory. He goes on the offensive, and they end up in close, grappling to try and knock the other down. Eskel kicks the outside of Geralt’s thigh and his leg collapses, dragging them both down. 

They scramble on the dirt floor, trying to pin the other, and end up pulling apart and rushing to their feet only to attack again. Eskel manages to get Geralt in a headlock, but it only lasts a few moments before Geralt puts an elbow into his gut. The sparring match slowly begins to devolve into a messy scuffle.

In close again, Geralt takes another blow to his bad leg and grunts in pain, striking hard at the inside of Eskel’s thigh, returning pain for pain. Eskel kicks him in the back of the knee and drops him as they scramble, Geralt managing to get on top, trying to settle his weight and trap both arms and legs before it’s too late. Instead of pinning all four of Eskel’s limbs, he misses one and instead takes a knee to the groin. With a wheeze, he’s flipped onto his back, Eskel pulling his arms over his head. He spits into his friend’s face, and Eskel rocks back, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. Geralt knocks him back, trying again to wrestle him to the ground. For his trouble he takes another knee to his bad leg, but this time on the inside of the thigh near his groin. 

“Hey,” Dandelion mutters quietly in annoyance. “Yen, are you able to fix those, too?” he asks, looking at his nails as if he doesn’t much care about the answer. 

“Dandelion? Shut. Up.” She puts a hand on his leg and squeezes a little. While she knows full well they can’t hide their arrangement from the others, if Geralt asked them to keep it private, then they should. There are other currents at work here, and if he’s uncomfortable with the others knowing, then they don’t need to. She sees how Vesemir has looked over at Dandelion every time he speaks. “Put your hands over your mouth if you have to, don’t distract them,” she says in a low voice. 

The match has devolved into a fight and both of them are breathing hard, neither making much progress. Finally, Eskel hits his bad leg again, and then his stomach, before dumping him face first into the dirt. They’re both frustrated, and Geralt tries to buck him off and Eskel gets a handful of hair and grabs hard, intending to crack Geralt’s face into the ground. 

“Fuck,” Lambert leaps up, Coën a second behind him. They pull the two witchers apart, Geralt hissing curses that are just as vile as the ones Eskel spits back at him. Lambert has to lean in hard to pull Geralt away, for all he’s rapidly losing strength and bruises are showing up all over his pale skin. 

Eskel almost slips Coën, and Yennefer stands up, prepared to use magic to keep them apart. Annoyed, Lambert kicks Geralt in the back of the leg and forces him onto his knees before pinning him to the dirt. Lambert presses his body down on top of Geralt’s for good measure, hoping the added pressure will deter him from trying to get a limb free. That wouldn’t have worked other than Geralt was far too tired to put up much fuss anymore. He goes limp, cheek pressed into the dirt and Dandelion stares, about to open his mouth. Yen kicks his shin and he stays silent. 

Eskel ends up shoved against a wall, Coën’s forearm against his throat. “That’s enough,” he snaps, raising his knee to take a kick to his shin rather than a softer part of his body. “You won, you kicked his arse, he’s on the dirt, leave him be,” he grunts. Eskel stops, and looks over at Geralt, lying there like it’s what he meant to do the whole time. With a nod, he walks out of the room. 

“Well get off him, he gave up, what’re you still crushing him for?” Coën asks irritably. 

“I thought he was faking, if I’m being honest. D’you remember the time you two got into a fight, and he went down on purpose, and the second you dropped your guard he popped you so hard in the balls you puked? I didn’t want him to do me the same way.” 

Coën holds out a hand and Geralt allows himself to be pulled up. He’s a little dazed, and heavily bruised. He’d given about as good as he’d gotten, but he’d been at a disadvantage. “I’ll get you down to the baths,” he sighs. Gripping Geralt by the upper arm, he helps him out of the room. “I suppose we can postpone our match an extra day or so, I don’t need Eskel’s sloppy seconds and I’d hate anyone to think I only kicked your arse because Eskel did it the day before.” 

Geralt grunts, nods, and does his best to stay on his feet. His leg aches fiercely and he thinks he might be sick. Coën shifts his grip to grab Geralt by the back of his belt, and then drags his arm over his shoulders to help him walk easier. Relieved at the assistance, he leans heavily on the other witcher. 

When they reach the bathing pool, Coën unceremoniously shoves Geralt into the water. Coughing and spluttering, Geralt surfaces, and glares. He should have known something else was coming.

“Must you always be such a whoreson?” 

“What does it matter? Didn’t all those extra trials burn the feelings right out of you?”

Anger burns low in his gut for a moment, and he remembers all the times he’d said it, trying to believe it. Ignoring Coën, he takes up a handful of soap and rubs the dirt off his arms and face. 

“Can you get out on your own?” 

“Yes. If not, I’m sure Yennefer will come to mock me, and fetch someone for me.” Not that he thinks she would right now. At least not as much as she might have in the past. 

Surprised to see Eskel coming down the steps as Coën leaves, Geralt sits on the ledge of the pool, resting his head on the edge. 

“We got a bit heated, eh?” he asks, stripping out of his pants before joining Geralt. “Bastard shoved you in, didn’t he?” 

“It’s not as if it’s the first time someone’s pushed me in,” he lifts an eyebrow. 

“We were quite stupid when we were young. Did I hurt you?” 

“No,” Geralt shakes his head. It’s a lie, and he hopes Yen has more of that balm she’d used earlier because he thinks if his leg hurts any worse, he’s going to scream and never stop. 

“You’re lying.” 

“What would you like me to do?” Geralt asks, hands gripping the ledge so tight they hurt. The muscle is cramping and Yennefer isn’t there, Dandelion isn’t there, no one is going to help him. 

“I didn’t mean to lose my head. I thought I had more control.” 

“I was just as bad.” 

Eskel soaps up and ducks under the water. “You able to get out on your own?” 

He tilts his head, listening, “the bard’s on his way, if I can’t, he’ll help me.” 

“You sure you’re just sitting there in your pants, in the bath, because you want to, and not because you can’t take them off or get out?” 

“Very sure.” 

“I’ll see you at breakfast then. Your footing was embarrassing,” Eskel tells him as he gets out of the water and dries off. 

Dandelion gives Eskel a dirty look when he passes him on the steps and comes to sit on the ground by the pool. He waits until Geralt stops listening, and he knows that Eskel is out of earshot. “How’s your leg?” he asks seriously. 

“Bad,” he whispers back, “I don’t know if I can walk back to our room.” 

“We’ll get you.” 

“It’s cramping,” he complains, voice tight. 

“Well then let’s at least get you out of the water,” the bard tells him, kissing his temple. “We need to get those wet trousers off if you expect me to be able to massage it without also rubbing your skin off.” 

“I wouldn’t mind hearing words close to that in a similar context,” Geralt tries to joke, but even with the bard gripping him under the arms and hauling him up, he can barely get his legs under him to stand on the ledge. 

Nimble fingers undo the fastenings of his pants and pull them away before helping him sit on the ground and tugging his pants completely off. “Oh, I can see it, that’s horrible,” Dandelion mumbles, the muscles are rigid and perfectly delineated. “It’s going to hurt worse at first.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry.” The bard starts kneading, lifting himself onto his knees so he can put his full weight into it. 

Geralt grits his teeth so hard he’s afraid he’s going to crack them, but if he doesn’t, he’s going to scream. “Where’s Yennefer?”

“Well that’s rather rude,” Dandelion tells him. “Here I am, coming to see if you’re alright and you want the witch instead-”

“Dandelion,” Geralt warns. 

“She’s making sure she has more of that balm that helped you yesterday, and then she’ll be down. Along with fresh clothes. There, are you satisfied?” 

“I will be when she shows up with the jar,” he says tightly. 

Dandelion looks at Geralt’s face and wishes he hadn’t. The poor witcher can’t even begin to hide the pain. At least they can pretend it’s water, and not tears, dripping down his cheeks. The bard doesn’t stop kneading until Yennefer is next to him, replacing his hands with hers, a thick salve coating her palms. 

Geralt whimpers when his leg starts to go blessedly numb, the muscle relaxing. He reaches out and cups Dandelion’s cheek for a moment in thanks. Earlier, the pain had been so bad he’d felt frozen, unable to move and risk making it worse. Yennefer tsks over all the bruises decorating his torso and legs. There’s a bruise or two on his face, she thinks, but in the bad lighting it’s hard to tell. If there are, they’re not as bad as the ones he took to his body. 

“I hope you feel you proved the size of your cock to the others,” she tells him briskly. “Especially seeing as how you decided to let Eskel kick you in the balls.” 

He senses the annoyance in her voice and doesn’t even try to respond. 

“If you’re done being stupid, for at least another day or so, I have something in the room that will help with the bruising. Although, if you’re intending to get into another scuffle tomorrow, you can just suffer.” 

Geralt knows it’s wiser not to answer her. She’s very angry with him. Her scent is sour with fear, instead of just the sharpness anger usually has. Dandelion’s is… sad. Worried. He thinks, even. “I think I’d like to take a nap now,” he says lightly, hoping that will soothe her. 

“Then let’s get you to bed,” she tells him, kissing his cheek. With hers and Dandelion’s help he manages to get up without too much trouble. Walking with a numb leg proves to be an interesting challenge, but he manages. He’s asleep before he even touches the lumpy mattress. 

“Did you see what I saw?” Dandelion asks her quietly. 

“I think I saw a great many things you saw, and more besides.” 

“When he was pinned. When he knew he couldn’t get up, he just stopped fighting.” 

“That’s the wise thing to do, usually.” 

“What?” 

“Most people who want you to stop moving, will hurt you until you do. Easier to hold still and see if they’ll stop, too. If they don’t, then perhaps you struggle again perhaps you don’t.” 

“Why would Geralt have learned that lesson?” Dandelion asks her softly. “Who would have taught him that? Eskel didn’t stop. He was still ready to fight Coën until he lost enough air to calm down. It wasn’t a lesson Vesemir taught them.” 

“No, he taught them plenty of other things,” her lip curls in disgust. _‘A golem.’ ‘An empty skull.’ ‘A mutant, a monster.’_

“Yennefer.” 

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” she tells him, stroking Geralt’s hair gently. She smiles wanly when Geralt tips his face towards her in his sleep. Brushing a kiss over his lips, she smiles again when he relaxes more into the bed. “So spoiled,” she comments. “Won’t even fall asleep properly without a kiss.” 

“I don’t know how we avoid having this conversation,” he presses her. 

“I don’t know all the things he’s suffered. I don’t want to. There are things we don’t talk about. If you want to press him, that’s for you to do. He and I have our agreement. There are things I will never speak of. I am sure he much feels the same about what you’re asking. I won’t help you with this.” 

“How can you feel alright about letting him suffer?” 

“I think forcing him to relive things just for your titillation would cause far more suffering than letting him bury it and move past it.” 

“Because that’s worked so well for you?” he asks.

Her eyes flash with blue fire and sparks crackle around her fingertips. He stares in shock, he’d heard Geralt talk about her temper more than once. And also about preserves jars, he hadn’t quite put the connection together, seeing as how Geralt was a nonsensical drunk, but now he understands. She’s gotten kinder, since Ciri. Since Geralt was hurt so badly. Because otherwise he’s quite sure he’d be against a wall or at least have gotten slapped. Instead, the sorceress is gently smoothing Geralt’s hair again, frowning. Her expression changes when Geralt shifts again. 

“Don’t wake him up, he needs to sleep. He needs to heal. And he can’t do that if you go poking and ripping all his old wounds open.” 

“They’re not healed, they’re not closed, they’re festering sores oozing pus!” he protests. 

“Poetic as your words might be, Geralt doesn’t feel that way, and in this, his feelings are paramount. Don’t force this with him. Take him as he is. Sores oozing with pus or not.” 

“This is not normal,” he protests. “And it shouldn’t be acceptable.” 

“What happened, or didn’t happen, is unacceptable. Many people suffer horrible things, Dandelion. Many people undergo things that leave them broken and bloody and no one lifts a finger. They kill dwarves, and halflings, and elves for not being human. They create mutated men to kill the monsters they make with their own experiments, and then hate and revile them. Nothing in this world is going to be beautiful like your songs try and make them. You owe it to Geralt to leave him be. If he wants to talk to you about it, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t.” 

“Yennefer, you can’t seriously believe-”

“If you are concerned about what choices he’s had taken away from him, don’t take more of them.” 

** 

Ciri returns from a bath after a rough day of training. Her glib tongue had gotten her into plenty of trouble. And as such no one had gone gently on her. She’s fine if a bit sore and tired. Certainly doing better than Geralt. Dandelion is gone, and she feels vague concern when she sees Yennefer reading in a chair, rather than next to the witcher. Braiding her hair out of her face, she crawls into bed next to Geralt. He grunts when she pushes into a bruise on accident, and then wraps an arm around her anyway. He’d woken up at the sound of the door opening, registered it was her, and had gone back to sleep. Until she’d poked him with an elbow, anyway. 

“All your parts still attached?” she asks him as she gets comfortable. 

“Upstart, ingrate, brat, horrible monster-child,” he tells her in response, squeezing her lightly.

She laughs, “I’ll take that as a no,” she informs him pertly, turns to kiss his cheek, and then resettles against him to go to sleep. 

“I hope they beat you,” he grumbles, settling into the bedding. 

Yennefer puts her reading aside some time later and blows out the candles before curling up at Ciri’s back. She’s somewhat concerned that the bard isn’t with them, but she knows that no one would harm him in the keep. And he’s not stupid enough to leave the grounds no matter how upset with her he is. She’s surprised Geralt is willing to sleep without him in view, at least, and feels it’s a testament to how poorly he’s faring. They sleep heavily, despite their missing compatriot. 

When Geralt wakes up in the morning, Ciri is gone, off to train. Dandelion is sitting in a chair watching him. Disconcerted, he frowns and starts to get up, and his body reminds him of what he used it for the day before. The bard gets up to sit by him, helping him up. Exhausted, Geralt leans into him, feeling like he hasn’t slept at all. Dandelion snorts lightly, letting the witcher snuggle up. Yennefer wakes up enough to see them, and then to roll slightly further away on the bed and go back to sleep. 

A bit of shifting later, and Dandelion has Geralt mostly in his lap with the witcher’s head pillowed on his shoulder. “There’s a good lad,” he says softly, stroking Geralt’s bad leg gently. When he doesn’t react badly to it, Dandelion keeps it up, hoping it’ll help somewhat. He remembers where the bruises were, Eskel hadn’t kicked him all over the leg, just the outside and inside, so Dandelion’s fingers run across the top. 

“Where were you?” Geralt murmurs, he’d fallen asleep, expecting to wake up to have the bard with him. It had surprised him to wake up to see Dandelion in the chair. 

“I had to clear my head. Don’t worry, I stayed inside the keep. All is well.” 

“Why?” Geralt presses, barely able to keep his eyes open. He snuggles in closer, one hand clinging to the front of Dandelion’s shirt. 

“Oh, love you got some hair in, oww, oh, here, let’s just, you don’t have to let go forever, don’t fight me, just, unless you’re trying to rip my hair out, yes, see, you can hold onto my shirt as long as you like, just not the hair, too. And as for why…” he takes a breath and thinks about it. “You’ve asked me not to press you on it, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still have to think about it, or deal with it. Go back to sleep, love, I’ll hold you until you’re ready to wake up,” he kisses Geralt’s temple. He feels Geralt yawn, warm breath on his skin, and then the witcher relaxes, going mostly limp. “Oh, I love you so much, you stupid, stupid, stubborn arse,” Dandelion whispers, stroking his hair. 

As promised, he stays there, holding Geralt until he wakes up again. Geralt wakes up slowly, somewhat confused as to why he’s upright. As his memories trickle in, he breathes in deeply, enjoying the smell of the bard. There’s a hint of something bitter to it, and he presses a timid kiss on his collar bone. Did he do something wrong? Is that smell because of him? As he pulls away, he looks Dandelion over for any signs of harm or anger. 

“What’s wrong?” Dandelion asks gently, helping him ease back onto the bed. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks hesitantly. 

“Yes, love, I’m fine. We’re both fine. I hope.” 

Yennefer wakes up to their voices, and glances over at them. She yawns and stretches, arching her back and then sitting up. “I’m going to find something to eat,” she informs them, deciding to let them have their moment alone. She wants no part of it. 

Once she’s left, Geralt is still left feeling like something between him and Dandelion is damaged. He watches him in consternation. 

“What’s wrong?” Dandelion asks him. 

“You don’t seem like yourself,” Geralt offers, dread curling in his belly.

“I didn’t sleep much last night, and to be honest I’m just concerned about you. You’ve been rather off, as of late.” 

“I did get cursed,” he mutters, not sure what he did wrong. He’s been trying to be more like Dandelion. Reciprocate touching more, use less harsh words. It’s not easy. It’s not who he is, and he feels like he just keeps letting Dandelion down. 

“Are you upset with me, or is your leg hurting you?” Dandelion asks gently, slipping his fingertips under Geralt’s chin to tip his head up. 

“I feel like you’re upset with me,” Geralt admits unhappily. 

“Oh, no, no, not right now, at least. I have been in the past, and I’m sure I will again in the future. But not right now. I just didn’t like seeing you get shoved into the dirt like that.” 

“It happens,” Geralt offers him. 

“I know, I know it does. I don’t have to like it.” 

“You’ve never cared when monsters knocked me about.” 

“I did, I’ve always cared. It’s just you wouldn’t let me care as openly as you let me now.” 

“Let you? I can’t stop you from doing anything,” he huffs. 

“Oh, that’s not true. You’re much stronger than I am, and much quicker.” Something in him feels sick that Geralt might feel that way. “Do you truly feel like that?” his heart rises into his throat. 

Geralt manages to discard each and every flippant response that rises into his mouth, crowding behind his teeth. He swallows them down and meets Dandelion’s eyes. “Not in the way you’re thinking, not the way you’re looking at me. I don’t want to control you, Dandelion. Although sometimes I wish when I told you to leave something alone, you would.” 

“I am trying to learn,” Dandelion tells him gently. 

“I know.” 

Clever fingers lightly reach out to tickle Geralt’s ribs, and he twitches away with a frown. “I really am trying to learn the difference between your ‘no’s’,” the bard says gently. “But half the time you say things you don’t mean, and I think I have taken liberties with it, so that I felt it was alright to push you. I’m sorry. I do love you, as you are. I will continue to try and improve.” 

Geralt presses a soft kiss to the bard’s lips and pulls away. He eases his stiff and bruised body out of the bed with a groan. He dresses quickly. “Are you coming to breakfast?” 

“No, I think I’ll go back to sleep for a bit. If you need anything wake me?” 

“I will.” 

Geralt is unsurprised to see the witchers at the table by the fire. He is more surprised to see that Coën and Ciri had finished their meal first and were playing that same game they used to play years ago when he first brought Ciri here. He smiles faintly and drops himself to the bench with a grunt. For once, he doesn’t think Cöen is holding back on Ciri much. The girl had improved her reflexes greatly with time, practice, and experience. 

He sips at his cider and works his way through a bowl of porridge. Occasionally a sharp squeal makes him look up and he knows Ciri has gotten her hands slapped. Coën doesn’t make much noise when the witcher girl lands a hit, but Geralt can hear the slap of skin against skin. 

“How’re you feeling?” Lambert asks him quietly. 

Geralt wonders if the conversation is some kind of trap or not, Lambert can be unpleasant when the mood strikes him. He grunts rather than answer and looks over at Eskel who shrugs at him. Their sparring had gotten somewhat out of control and neither one of them is remotely repentant about it. If anything, Geralt has the feeling they would like a chance to try again. 

“I didn’t mean to mash you into the floor like that,” he adds and Geralt nods a bit. He knows. He’d been able to hear. “I thought you were playing possum like last time.” 

Skin prickling, he has no idea why this is of note. “I was, and then I realized it was pointless. You had a hold on me, and I was injured.” He’s learned sometimes if you struggle less it hurts less. What more is there to say about it? 

“You done eating?” Eskel asks once Geralt has pushed his bowl away. He waits for a nod and then stands up. “Let’s work together for a bit,” he suggests. 

“Can I have a moment to let the food settle, or do you intend for me to vomit it all up?” 

“Walk with me first,” Eskel says. 

With an annoyed noise, he glances over when he hears a shriek and then another loud slap. Coën is laughing and Ciri is infuriated but unharmed. Unworried he rubs at his forehead a bit; glad she can act a bit like a child again for a few moments. She needs it. Geralt follows Eskel out of the room and outside the castle entirely. He’s not sure he has the stamina for a long walk and any kind of training. However, if he can’t manage Yennefer or Dandelion will eventually come looking and put him to rights. 

When they reach the trail, the Killer, as they’d called it as boys, Eskel sits on a rock after brushing the snow off. Geralt settles next to him and feels some of the tension in his body melt away when his friend puts an arm around him. He has no idea how long they sit together; he just knows eventually the cold starts to make him shiver and Eskel stands up and helps him to his feet and they walk back towards the keep together. Eskel’s arm stays around his shoulders until they reach the walls and then it drops.

Once inside Geralt is happy to sit by the fire and let his body warm all over. He feels vaguely bereft when Eskel squeezes his shoulder and leaves. He’s alone in the room, and he has a feeling Ciri is facing some of her old challenges, such as the comb or perhaps the pendulum. She should be out running the trail in the mornings, but he much prefers waking to find her at his side still. 

He doesn’t hear the bard, and as such doesn’t know where he would go to find him. Yennefer has not been granted access to the Labtratorium below the keep, but he has a feeling she is working magic somewhere. His medallion buzzes faintly against his chest. Odds are Vesemir is supervising to make sure she’s not going near any of the keep’s ancient secrets. Once he feels warm, he gets up and bites his lip rather than groan at the pain in his leg. He rubs at his ear, feeling where the arrow tore most of the shell away. It’s meant his hearing is less precise, and he feels even more decrepit than he should. 

It doesn’t take long to find Ciri, mostly by her curses and Lambert’s exhortations to stop with the cursing and just run the bloody exercise. They jostle shoulders a bit by way of greeting when he enters the room to watch. 

“I said parry then thrust, then pirouette, what are you doing?” the dark haired witcher cries in irritation. “Stop acting the princess and act like a witcher!” He glances at Geralt “Come to refresh your skills?” he asks teasingly. He chuckles when all Geralt does is curl his lip to show his teeth. “Come on girl, show the Wolf you haven’t forgotten everything we taught you here!” 

“I’d like to see you do better!” she snaps at Lambert. 

“And you will,” he says agreeably. “Once you can get through this without me telling you how to do it each step of the way.” 

She spits on the floor as close to him as she can get and he looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “Quite the hellion you’ve raised, Geralt.” 

“We were separated for a while,” Geralt tells him blandly. “I think her gang did more raising of her than I did,” he admits bitterly. Not that he had any business raising a child. 

“You’re shaking,” Lambert tells him, concerned. “Go back to bed, Wolf. You aren’t ready to be up and about so much. Especially not after Eskel handed you your arse.” 

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, but with a glance at Ciri to see her twirl neatly over the beam with a summersault to follow, he leaves. He’d half hoped that he and Eskel would feel closer again, like they had as boys. But at the same time the keep and the Trials and Changes had driven them apart and Geralt doesn’t quite know how to heal that rift. Not with Vesemir watching. They’d had other training masters, too, before so many of them had died. It was just Vesemir had done the nightly rounds the most and had caught them the most. 

He bumps into Coën in the hallway and snarls in irritation. His battered body doesn’t need more abuse, accidental or otherwise. His leg buckles and Coën catches him, holding him up. Silently, they make their way back to the room Geralt is sharing with his family before Coën releases his hold and walks back the way he’d been going. 

Dandelion isn’t in the room, and Geralt had half hoped the bard would still be there sleeping. Exhausted, he drops down to the mattress and falls asleep. 

When he wakes up, Yennefer is with him. He doesn’t even remember her coming in and feels concerned. She strokes his hair, gently running her fingers through it and working out the tangles.

“How’s your leg?” she asks him. His face scrunches in pain by way of response and she leans over to the small table by the bed to grab the jar. What she’d made the second time round seems to last much longer and work better in general. Geralt eagerly shifts to help her and sighs contentedly when she puts her hands on his leg. “I’ll try and perfect it, I don’t want you to lose all sensation. I’m trying to find something that will at least stop it from cramping up. Although I think that’s you, being so tense because it hurts and so it cramps,” she muses. 

“Do you know where Dandelion is?” he asks her quietly, sitting up. 

“No, darling, I don’t,” she kisses his cheek. 

“‘I’ve done something and I don’t know what,” he tells her unhappily. He doesn’t need to add that with her he always knows where he stands. The minute he’s angered her she tells him in no uncertain terms exactly what he’s done. 

“You didn’t,” she reassures him. “He’ll be fine, don’t fuss about him. Focus your energy on healing and resting.” 

He kisses her gently, wondering if perhaps they could focus on something else for a few moments now that he has her alone. When she pulls away to look him in the eyes, he has no idea what she’s searching for. Apparently she finds her answer because when she kisses him again it’s heated and he responds eagerly. 

They lie together afterwards, and Yennefer pulls away first. “We should put something on those bruises,” she reminds him. They hadn’t because he’d fallen asleep before she could and if she’s being honest, she’d been worried about other things. She’s been trying to seek out Vilgefortz or Bonhart and isn’t having as much luck as she’d like. She gets hints of things, and the keep is imbued with enough magic from centuries of use that anything she does is hidden. 

“They’re not so bad,” he tells her, and then barely bites back a yelp when she pokes the one on the inside of his thigh. “Perhaps you’re right,” he concedes, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

She gets up and finds the balm on the table and is tempted to make him apply it himself. The urge fades when she sees how he shifts in hopes she’ll do it for him. First, she goes over his cheekbone where he’d taken an elbow, then his stomach, arms, groin, and ends with his leg. By the time she’s done his eyes have lidded over and his breathing is so slow if she couldn’t see his chest rise she’d assume he’d stopped entirely. “We’re turning you into a house cat instead of an alley cat,” she teases. 

“Hmm?” 

“Alley cats run from humans, house cats come and expect to be petted, and fed, and stroked, and cared for. We’re domesticating you,” she teases him and giggles when he glares at her. “Is that really so bad? Knowing you have somewhere you can go where the people will take care of you?” 

“No,” he whispers softly. 

She kisses him again, and he wraps his arms around her to keep her close. When he finally pulls away, she smiles at him and leans against his chest. He’s the only person who’s kissed her just to kiss her, she thinks. It’s amazing how affectionate he likes to be when he knows it’s allowed. They sit together until it’s time for lunch, and she kisses him for a few more seconds before slipping out of the bed and putting her dress back on. Geralt almost doesn’t want to eat, he’d almost rather just stay with her and hold her and kiss her. His stomach growls and she laughs at him, and so he dresses and they go get food. 

The other witchers know her well enough, with the exception of Coën whose first winter at Kaer Morhen had coincided with Ciri’s. Lambert dislikes Yennefer far less than he disliked Triss. While he still isn’t friendly with her, he isn’t openly hostile. Geralt eats the pottage in silence, feeling more anxiety eat at him when he realizes he still hasn’t seen Dandelion. Yennefer automatically reaches out a hand to stroke his back. She barely gives the action a thought and continues her conversation with Eskel about Nilfgaard and the ugly battles raging around the continent. 

Ciri listens quietly, glad to see that her salad and cider is back to normal. They aren’t treating her differently just because Yennefer is there like they had with Triss. Although Triss was far nosier than Yennefer and had been more willing to aggravate the witchers. Despite Vesemir’s deep affection for Triss, and Eskel’s gallant manners, the others hadn’t seemed quite so taken with her. 

Geralt leans into Yennefer’s hand on his back and she tenses her fingers some so that she’s lightly scratching instead. She can feel the contentment he’s radiating at her touch and is glad she managed to forestall some of his worries. Dandelion is fine. He’s keeping himself away for a bit because he can’t keep his mouth shut and she knows it. She’s deeply thankful the bard has no idea what Triss had done to get Geralt into her bed, because even the witcher doesn’t know. It had completely ruined her and Triss’ friendship when Yennefer had found out. Geralt has never been able to understand why she’s so angry about all of it. They’d been on the outs when it had happened, surely that meant it hardly counted. If magic hadn’t been involved, Yennefer wouldn’t be enraged every time she thought about it. 

She ignores Vesemir watching her oddly and continues to give Geralt the affection he wants while they eat. Lambert predictably picks a fight with her about not caring about who wins the war. Her eyes flash with blue fire and Geralt puts his hand over his face the same way he had every time Triss had tried to engage the group with politics. 

“Enough,” he says wearily, voice muffled by the last bite of his pottage. “Enough, I’m sick of it all.” 

Ciri looks at him oddly, and then at Yennefer. “How do you mean?” she asks Geralt, braving his ire. 

“Humans, normal humans, will always make war. They’ll hardly destroy enough that people won’t come back and rebuild. There will always be more, people will always survive just like cockroaches and sewer rats. They’ll say one system was unjust, but then put a system in place that’s far more restrictive and vile. They’ll pit families against each other, non-humans will be forced to pick sides. Pick the side that’s going to suffer the most casualties or try and get along with a group that uses and abuses them and won’t give them any rights or dignity. They were here first, and now are forced to live in the shadows.” 

“Like Yarpen,” she says softly, remembering the terror of the convoy being attacked, the Scoia’tael dying and the knight, too. A waste of life on all sides just to test loyalties for no good reason. She remembers the rose, the garden, and what Geralt had told her about neutrality. Not picking a side meant not having to kill needlessly. But it also meant not standing against those who would turn on their own for no reason, too. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer starts to protest. 

“I’ve had my fill of spilling blood, I’ve had my fill of being used. I’m sick of being caught in conflicts and told it’s destiny and that it’s all bound to be. What child will find comfort knowing his mother was murdered in front of him because it was his destiny to be an orphan? Perhaps he’ll find himself press-ganged into the local militia and his destiny is now to rape and murder his way across the continent in service to the army?” he asks in disgust. He glances up when he hears footsteps and sees Dandelion coming into the room. 

“If no one stands against those doing all the killing, then when does it ever stop?” the bard asks him quietly, taking a seat by Ciri and helping himself to the food. 

“And how does killing more people solve the killing?” Lambert asks. 

“Because eventually one side wins and gets rid of the person who’s started it all.” 

“Just so that they can continue with hangings, and beheadings, and the burnings of entire villages to ‘keep the peace’ until everyone’s afraid and a new uprising begins,” Lambert points out in disgust. “It’s a cycle. Over and over and over again.” 

“One should decide to pick the person most in the right, and if you die for that, you die,” the bard says softly. 

Geralt feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he almost gets out of his seat in alarm. “Or better to just stay out of it than die,” he protests. 

“What’s the point of watching the world being remade over and over if you never try and make it any better?” Ciri asks quietly and they all stare. 

“We do make it better, we kill monsters,” Vesemir tells her. 

“Only certain kinds,” she points out. 

“We stay neutral,” the old witcher tells her. “Then they have less reason to think many of us still come here, and less skeletons will be added to the grounds around the moat,” he slams his cup down and leaves the table. 

Geralt winces and knows at some point Ciri is going to ask him what happened. She had in the past, and no one had been willing to tell her. Insanity and fear had risen up and taken hold, and with the help of zealots and magicians, man had marched upon Kaer Morhen and slaughtered everyone inside the keep. The only witchers who had survived it had been elsewhere when it had happened. Sick to his stomach at the thought, he gets up from the table and leaves. 

Surprised when he hears Eskel behind him, he turns in the hallway and they both stare at each other for a few moments. Geralt knows he has to be the one to move forward again, and he quickly embraces the other witcher, relieved to feel Eskel’s arms immediately shift around his shoulders. “I missed you,” he adds quietly, hoping to ease some of the hurt between them. Things had been sort of alright when he had first brought Ciri. They’d been able to mostly ignore the past and focus on the girl and her bursts of magic. Then Triss had come, and they hadn’t made any progress repairing their friendship but at least they hadn’t made it worse. 

Perhaps now they can do something to close the rift. They cling together tightly just as they did as boys, and neither one wants to be the first to break away. They had suffered many beatings together, played together, trained together, and suffered the trials together. There was no one else left alive who knew as much about Geralt before the Changes as Eskel did. They had kept each other alive, and sane through the brutal training and had also saved each other from several punishments. It had left a hole deep inside both their hearts when Geralt had pushed Eskel away after he’d undergone further Changes. 

As Triss had pointed out that night, years ago, it wasn’t the elixirs and potions that had stopped him from having emotions. He’d done his best to exorcise them himself. And while he had quashed them for a time, it had not been permanent. He couldn’t do it. He squeezes Eskel tighter and isn’t shocked to feel his friend do the same. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s easier to say than he thought it would be. Perhaps his time around Ciri and Dandelion is doing him some good. He’d been so sure he’d never get the words out. 

“It’s forgiven,” Eskel tells him, his voice barely above a whisper. When they hear footsteps, they break apart guiltily, just like they had decades ago, afraid of being caught showing affection. 

Lambert passes them and pauses just long enough to tell Geralt, “Coën’s got her on the comb, Vesemir’ll catch her later with the book learning.” 

Geralt nods and wishes he had more energy to do literally anything. He reaches out and squeezes Eskel’s hand, not sure how to begin catching up. 

“Come with me, Wolf,” Eskel smiles and Geralt nods and follows Eskel to his room. Much of the keep is destroyed, including the rooms that had housed them in small groups as boys. They’d had a few planks and no bedding to sleep on. Not unlike their rooms now, only now they could use the skins of animals they’d killed and a few blankets. 

They sit side by side on the bed, leaning into each other. “What brings you back here again?” Eskel breaks the silence. 

“Ciri. Me, I think. Yennefer wasn’t sure what to do with me when I took sick. She needed a place with magic that would hide her own. Or so I’ve been told,” he drops his head to Eskel’s shoulder and closes his eyes in relief when Eskel lets his own head rest against Gerat’s. How many times had they sat together as boys just like this, sharing their dreams of the future? “We can’t stay anywhere, Nilfgaard is attacking everywhere, the damn Scoia’tael are attacking wherever Nilfgaard isn’t. I’m not easy to hide, neither is Ciri. She was on her own for a while until Bonhart and Skellen caught up to her.” 

Eskel hisses and squeezes Geralt’s hand. He knows those names. “Is she…?”

“Other than some more scars to add to her collection, she’s as alright as she can be.” 

“I hadn’t wanted to ask about her cheek.” 

“I hadn’t had much chance, I’ve had a run of bad luck, it seems. Had my arse handed to me by a leshen, then walked into a curse not long after I got better. She almost died,” he adds softly. “That scar twisting up her face almost killed her. I wasn’t with her. I shouldn’t have, I shouldn’t have allowed her to be taken from Melitele’s Temple,” he sighs. “Or at the least I should have gone with her, and never let her out of my sight. I just felt if I could draw Rience out since that was one person I knew was hunting her, I’d find others. Or at least find a way to Vilgefortz and whoever was helping him.” 

“I heard about Aretuza. Heard you were killed there. You and Yennefer.” 

“I almost died there,” he admits. 

“Your leg?” 

“Courtesy of a certain magician I intend to kill as soon as I can find him. Triss got me to Brokilon and the dryads healed it as best they could. Yen thinks,” his throat squeezes. “Yen thinks she can put it to rights the rest of the way. Healing isn’t what she’s focused her abilities on, but that’s part of why we’re here, I think.” 

“Stuff you to the gills with elixirs?” Eskel asks. 

“See what we use for healing, and if she can magic it stronger,” he replies. “Or just see what Vesemir knows. He likes Triss better, I don’t know how much he’ll tell her. Not that he tells anyone much of anything.”

“He was a fencing teacher, Geralt. I don’t know what all he really does know.” 

“He was also the one who beat me more than any of our other teachers,” Geralt points out. “He’s gone soft in his age; he was kind to Ciri.” 

“Maybe after all that’s happened he’s just running out of sharp edges.” 

“Perhaps he could have done that before he tanned my backside black and blue more times than I could count.” 

“You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, either, if I recall. From the start you were causing problems.” 

“Unlike some of you, I wasn’t pulled out of an alleyway or a gutter or picked up alongside a highway,” he shifts on the bed, body tensing. “I didn’t understand she’d left me on purpose for him to find. I thought she’d lost me. I was a child, stupid and full of hope, what did I know? She’d always told me we were bound by destiny and if I ever got lost, we’d find each other. I didn’t know it was all lies.” 

“And so, when they told us the rules about staying in our beds, the first thing you did was run away after lights out.” Eskel squeezes his hand again to take the sting from his words. “I think they debated chaining you to your bed at night, or… no, did they threaten to put you in a cage? Was that it?” 

“After the first spanking once I was dragged back kicking and screaming, you’ll recall I didn't try again.” 

“True, you didn’t.” Eskel kindly neglects to mention the crying that had replaced the escape attempts. 

“You had to crawl onto my bed with me that third night.” Geralt drags in a shuddering breath. “The second night, rather than be caged or chained, I did what any child separated from their mother would do. And as such I got taught witchers don’t show emotions like that, and they don’t stay awake when they’re meant to be sleeping. By the third night I was so convinced I would receive a spanking no matter what I did because I couldn’t sleep, I was bawling.” 

“I crawled next to you and put my hand over your mouth so no one would hear,” Eskel recalls. “I couldn’t imagine anyone as stupid as you, at the time, but I was sick of hearing you get hit after just two days of it. You weren’t like most of us, you were well fed, and clean, taken care of. Soft,” he adds without malice. “You latched onto me, like an unwanted pest I couldn’t get rid of.” 

“Two days after that we were best of friends,” Geralt points out. “We got in trouble for holding hands or hugging, or any of the other things little children do without thinking much of it.” 

“It was the only way to get you to fall asleep,” Eskel reminds him. “You were so miserable at first that you would only sleep if we were holding hands. Half the time I’d wake up you had wormed your way in next to me on the bed anyway and I’d have to shove you out before they came to wake us up.” 

“You thought you were so world-weary, having been there a few weeks longer, being stuck with me,” Geralt snorts. “But when I wasn’t so bad at the academics or the training, you realized I wasn’t utterly useless.” 

“I only thought that about you for a few days. Soon enough I realized you were taking care of me, too.” He pulls away and looks at Geralt. “And then they put us through the Changes, and we pulled each other through it, and then suddenly you weren’t there anymore.” 

Geralt had known at some point he would owe Eskel some kind of explanation. Even if they both know the why and the what of it all, he’d known at some point he would have to deal with all of it if he wanted anything to be more like it was before. 

“They put me through extra,” he says softly. “I survived the other ones so easily, the next were worse. They told me it would strip away the feelings. And I was scared if I couldn’t make them believe they had; they would do it again until it worked. I did my best to bury them, to feel nothing, be nothing, do nothing...and I couldn’t do that with you by my side. I still wanted to help people, but I couldn’t if they kept using me as a lab rat,” his voice trembles. While he had survived the initial trials quite easily, the more they had added, the further potions that had changed his hair, skin, and even his bones, had hurt. Eskel put an arm around his shoulders and he leaned in the same way he would have years before. “We watched so many of them die,” he whispers. “I thought you would die,” he adds miserably. 

“And yet I didn’t,” Eskel says almost cheerfully. “And you didn’t, and they stopped sticking needles in your veins and they sent us out to go be witchers and earn our keep.” 

“And then not much longer they sacked Kaer Morhen and killed everyone they could,” Geralt’s throat tightens. He has never grieved the loss of their other friends; he has never grieved the loss of any of the other teachers they’d had. He’s not sure he could, because the pain would drown him and he’d never recover. Or if he somehow survived it, the guilt would eat him whole. 

“It wasn’t our fault, and us being there wouldn’t have changed a damn thing,” Eskel reminds him. “You always did feel like anything that went wrong was somehow blame to be laid at your feet. I’ve never understood it.” 

“They blamed us anyway, did they not?” he asks quietly. 

“Who? Vesemir never did, no one’s ever blamed anyone for what happened here, not among us witchers.” 

“Geralt, everyone who was out and about knows full well they had nothing to do with what happened. I think at the time I was out handling a pack of griffins, and you, what were you entangled in?”

“Bruxa,” he says. “Then a wyvern, kikimora, and necrophage before I even heard what happened.” His throat squeezes. “There was no way to know, was there?” he asks softly.

“No, Geralt, there wasn’t,” Eskel reassures him. “Otherwise, don’t you think more of us would have lived? Gotten out, or fortified the castle? We were betrayed, and our fellows murdered. That isn’t our fault. They trained us and sent us out to slay monsters. It’s what we were doing when it happened. It’s not as if you were halfway up Yennefer’s skirts when it happened, ignoring calls for help. The only people whose fault it is died decades ago.”

Geralt nods, still feeling sick whenever he thinks about it. Eskel gently squeezes his shoulder and he breathes out heavily through his nose.

“There’s nothing you could have done but lent your bones to decorate the moat same as the others.”

“Then why does it hurt so badly?” Geralt asks him softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have questions about my interpretation of Vesemir, I am so happy for you to ask. If you read carefully in whichever book (ruusverd isn't here to tell me) where Geralt is back at the keep, his behavior (G) is weird beyond reason. He usually has 0 problem speaking up or confronting people who upset him and in the Keep he does stuff like sit and sweat and hide his face in his hands and not speak at all. 
> 
> One of his only childhood memories we learn about is Vesemir beating both him and Eskel with a strap for tying a string on a bee and watching it fly around.  
> He admits he sees Vesemir as a father figure, but that he didn't need parents. His interactions with Visenna where he absolutely loses it on her for dumping him off to be a witcher are also really telling. People who ask him what else he'd do, he says he had no choice. We find out that supposedly the witchers don't remove memories like they do in Brokilon but he didn't know his own name. That isn't normal. He thinks Vesemir named him, which implies some serious brainwashing because how would he not know what came before? And how would Visenna know his name if she hadn't given it to him? So, I am happy to like, if you wanna hmu on tumblr @stressedspidergirlsfandomblog and ask questions, I can pull up text evidence and we can discuss signs of trauma and child abuse, etc. But I just want y'all to know I didn't make this up for plot shenanigans. 
> 
> But also, if you read this far, please don't worry, Eskel, Lambert, and even possibly Coen will all reappear in the fic in part 2. :} Geralt isn't losing anything.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruusverd... my hero... <3 thank you. I am.... I am so sorry. That I make you read this... you.. I just. <3 I'd send flowers but I can't. 
> 
> To the like, handful of my readers, thank you. To the people who have commented, thank you.   
>  There is actually 1 more chapter. Part two is... 11 chapters in and I need to send it off to beta, see what can be cut.   
> Let me know if anyone's interested in seeing the part two of the fic. I think it'll work in 3.

Geralt had slept heavily after his time with Eskel, waking only when Ciri came in to urge him to come to dinner. He hadn’t especially wanted to go down, but her insistence he eat had roused him enough to get him up. Groggily, he had followed her down the hallways, allowing her to lead him by the hand. His leg was stiff and his body still ached, but overall the nap had been restorative and he was feeling better.

Yennefer was already there, picking at her food while Dandelion was deep in conversation with Lambert. She occasionally added something to the conversation near her but wasn’t overly interested in talking. She looked up when Geralt came in and smiled at him, pleased to see him up and about. He wasn’t limping too badly and she was hopeful he was improving.

Dandelion gave him an odd smile but was far more interested in whatever he and Lambert were talking about. Geralt couldn’t be bothered to listen in, tuning them out. Knowing Dandelion it was either stories of Lambert’s exploits, or some kind of rousing debate over nothing important.

He slid onto the bench at the table next to Eskel and smiled when Ciri sat down next to him, Vesemir on her other side. Lambert sat at the other end of the table while Coen sat next to Dandelion, leaving Yennefer to sit on Vesemir’s other side. Things had seemed peaceful, until Vesemir decided to share what he felt about the sparring session that took place that morning.

“Could have done worse,” Eskel tells Geralt critically, looking him over. “You look much less bruised than I left you.” He gently squeezes Geralt’s shoulder and gives him a little shake. He grins when he gets a slight glare.

“Yennefer,” he grunts, jerking his head over to the sorceress. Her balm worked miracles. He reaches out to dish himself some food and starts eating. He’s hungry, he’s realized. Ciri had been right to drag him out of bed. “Would have been worse if you were a better fighter,” Geralt teases.

“Is that what you think?” Vesemir interrupts. “That was disgraceful on both your parts, but Geralt, I’m ashamed to know I had any part in training you,” he snaps irritably. “I taught you better. So many of your masters taught you better. And to think most of the time you’ve been here you’ve spent sleeping or rutting like a wild boar. You have no excuse to have been such a mess! What the fuck was wrong with your footwork? You were sloppy! I’m ashamed to sit and break bread with you right now. If you didn’t already have your medallion, I would recommend you be held back until you were able to fight the way you were taught to. The fuck do you have to say for yourself?”

Geralt drops the spoon he’d lifted and looks at Yennefer pleadingly. She takes a breath and sets her hand on Dandelion’s leg to stop him from intervening. If Geralt is willing to take the abuse, she’ll let him, even if she hates it. He’s convinced if they do anything, it will make the situation hundreds of times worse and he’s terrified. It’s been a while since he managed to draw any of Vesemir’s ire, but the tang of blood fills his mouth and nostrils and some part of him forgets how to breathe. He had been doing so well, decades had gone by, even, since the last time.

“I’ve been ill,” he protests weakly, knowing he has to answer. He looks up to meet Vesemir’s eyes, knowing that, too, is required. The blows he would take if he didn’t make eye contact make him cringe internally. It had taken several times before he had truly learned the lesson and could lock his gaze on those yellow eyes.

“Ill? Perhaps you also planned, as a witcher, to lay down and let the monster kill you when you’d had enough?” Vesemir crosses his arms over his chest, one hand still holding his drink. He takes a sip to wet his throat and eyes Geralt with disdain.

Geralt keeps his face a blank mask, knowing Vesemir had seen his weakness. With Lambert on top of him all he could do for himself was keep the fear away. He’d been unable to respond or move, frozen, and wondering what would happen to him. Humans were far worse than any zeugl or dracolizard. “No, sir,” he says quietly, again, knowing he has to answer. He hates that Vesemir can make him feel like a child. Hates that his former master has any kind of power over him like this and hates even more that he feels awful for having disappointed the old man. Just once, he would have liked to have pleased him.

“Would you like to know just how many things you did wrong?” He leans forward and sets down his cup, before folding his hands calmly on the table.

“Yes,” he forces himself to answer, licking his dry lips. No, he doesn’t. He already knows. He’d played the fight over and over, and as far as he’s concerned, he’d done as well as he could have given the shape he’d been in.

“For one, you shouldn’t have wasted your energy fucking your companions before going into a match. The fact that it wore you out at all is an even bigger cause for shame. What kind of witcher are you?”

Dandelion opens his mouth and feels Yennefer dig her nails into the tender inside of his upper thigh and closes it, glaring daggers at her. How dare she stop him? She was usually quite protective of Geralt and it made no sense that she would stop anyone from speaking in his defense. The white-haired man was a mess. Anyone could see it. She read minds, she had to know, even if she couldn’t tell by looking. Yennefer squeezed tighter, digging her nails deeper.

Geralt did his best to sit up straighter and keep his shoulders back. He forced himself to meet Vesemir’s gaze and not to react. The old man was right to yell and be angry. He was right to be frustrated. Geralt had failed him and shamed the keep and their teachers, their history, their legacy. Currently, he was unworthy of his medallion. Vesemir was right to talk to him like this. Wasting time looking in mirrors, letting Yennefer cast a spell to let him see other people’s memories, all of it was a ridiculous waste of time. He should be focused on his calling, not the rest of it.

“A good one,” Ciri bursts out, eyes defiant, startling Geralt. She’s never seen Vesemir angry. She has seen him critique the other witchers in matches, seen him correct and coach. She has no idea how common this is, but she’s also never seen Geralt cowed like this. Not even Yennefer on her worst day gets a reaction like this out of him. Of course, even on her worst days, Yennefer loves Geralt with all her heart. Ciri is starting to wonder if the kindly grandfather she’d known as a young girl was an act.

“A good one?!” Vesemir raises a hand and leans forward. “Don’t you dare question me, whelp!”

Yennefer’s hand lashes out, not as fast as a witcher’s, but as fast as a mother’s. “If you lay a hand on my daughter it will be the last thing you ever do with it.”

Geralt had watched in horror when he saw Vesemir’s hand rise, but all he could convince himself to do was to put his arm around Ciri, not shield her entirely or stop the blow. He wasn’t allowed to. Breathing hard, he pulls her closer to him, ignoring her nonverbal protest. Grateful Yen had stopped it, he can barely breathe. Unable to stop himself, he pulls Ciri across his lap and deposits her between him and Eskel, hoping she will be safe there. Shame crowds in on him, he let her down. He promised her he wouldn’t let anyone hurt her again if he could stop it and he let her down.

He swallows hard, trying not to vomit up what little he’d eaten before the calm had ruptured around him. Geralt glances at Dandelion’s angry expression and can’t believe for even a moment it’s not directed at him. The bard is furious, jaw working as he tries to figure out what to say and Geralt quietly prays he will stay silent. Things are bad enough already, and he has no idea what it will take to repair them.

When Ciri pushes at him again, he realizes he’s crushing her into his side and he loosens his grip, afraid that it wasn’t just the strength of the grip she was protesting, but him. He let her down. He keeps letting her down.

“Unhand me,” Vesemir says coldly.

“Gladly, I cannot wait to scrub the filth of your touch off my palm. How dare you sit here and be like this? How dare you pretend to be the fond grandfather when you are actually a snake in human skin? You aren’t a proper teacher! How dare you even pretend to care about the success of your pupils!” She stands up, eyes flashing and slams her hand down on the table hard enough to make the dishes jump.

“Do you know what good teachers do, Vesemir? They teach! They praise, they mentor, they show caring and kindness and they celebrate success! Yes, they discipline, yes they point out failure, but they don’t drive it into a man so deep he knows nothing but shame and self-loathing! If anyone around here has failed or shamed anyone it is you! Look at your precious witchers! None of them will speak up against you, none of them will do anything but what you say, and somehow you think that is better? Then you shame them for doing as they’re taught to do! You got mad Geralt stopped fighting? All you’ve done is taught him his life is worthless and meant to be thrown away at a moment’s notice, for a world that won’t care he’s gone. You’ve taught him that to stand against you is tantamount to murder and is a crime punishable in such pain no one would dare repeat it. How can you possibly think you’re in the right to shame anyone at this table?”

Coen and Lambert stare, but Lambert quickly drops his gaze. He knows what happens when you get caught staring and you shouldn’t be. He’s too shaken to keep eating, wishing he could do something to tell the witch to be quiet. He glances once at Geralt, but can see his fellow witcher is somewhere else, eyes wide and unseeing.

“That isn’t what I taught them to do! I taught them to be witchers! To hold and carry themselves apart from the tribulations of man! And what do I find him to be doing? Getting sucked in every time! Failing us, dragging shame and danger down on us! Getting involved with a princess of all things, fighting, and spying, and hunting out humans! When humans march to our gates once again to finish destroying this keep properly, the guilt will lie squarely at his feet.”

Eskel looks down at the table, shoulders hunching. He had rarely seen Vesemir this angry. It was enough to see it once or twice to do anything to make sure it never happened again. He found his fingers twining in with Geralt’s as they squeezed each other’s hands hard, remembering what it was like to live through this together. The terror they would be caught seeking comfort from each other while utterly unable to pull away because the fear was so strong. He feels Ciri’s back against their arms, feels her trembling and leans into her slightly, trying to offer her comfort. She didn’t know this would happen; it isn’t her fault. They knew, they knew speaking up, talking back, they knew it wasn’t allowed. The peace had been broken and somehow they would have to try and repair it.

Geralt could smell his own blood in the sand, his sweat against the wood of the post and his ears rang with the crack of a whip. All that was keeping him from bolting was Ciri pressed into his side and Eskel’s hand, squeezing his so hard if he didn’t squeeze back just the same his fingers would break.

“No, you taught them to perpetuate the notion they’re monsters themselves! You could have taught them what they did was more noble, that people could trust them. They could trust in turn! You made them feel something ugly. You took boys who wanted homes, and families, and you told them for the price of their pain, if they lived, they would have one. But you are no father. Fathers _love_ their children. You don’t love them; you claim not to feel but that’s a lie! The problem is you feel hate and nothing else. Harshness and nothing more. You are everything the world thinks a witcher is, a monster. And you taught as many boys as you could that they should be just like you, just as bad as you! I will not let you treat Ciri the way you treated any of them! And I won’t listen anymore while you try to grind Geralt into dust.”

“I will not be spoken to this way in my own home!”

She scoffs loudly. “This isn’t a home! This is a crumbling wreck that stands as a testament to your folly, and the folly of men like you! This place is a charnel house, a site where you murdered hundreds, if not thousands of little boys, and then those that lived you sent out to die without ever knowing anything better! They could have gone out in the world with pride, wondering if perhaps they had a right to stand up for themselves, or demand a little more! Why shouldn’t they get paid enough or demand better lodgings! Why should they allow people to force them into ditches and worse?! The people who did this, they knew they were doing wrong! Why else hide it, why only take boys without family, or as Children of Surprise if your cause and processes were noble and just?!”

Geralt feels adrenaline burning through his body and he somehow finds the strength to pull his hand free of Eskel’s, squeezing it briefly before letting go entirely.

“You will not make a mockery of me, nor what I have lost!” spit flies from Vesemir’s lips as he screams back, standing up at the table to lean forward and meet Yennefer’s gaze, glare for glare.

“Enough!” Geralt stands up, banging his legs painfully on the back of the bench. He would have knocked it over had not Eskel and Ciri been sitting on it. “That is enough! You will not speak to her like that, any more than you will raise a hand to my daughter,” His voice is oddly steady and he sees Vesemir look at him in utter disbelief. “I will not be the monster you tried to turn me into. I will not shut myself off, I will not betray myself, or the trust of the people who love me. I won’t let you keep taking every joy from me. I have people who have shown me there are other ways, better ways to be a father. There are ways that don’t create chasms and fear, you do not control me anymore.

“I know now, nothing I do will ever please you, nothing will ever be enough. I have spent my whole life trying to win your approval, and nothing I ever do will be good enough. I am done, Vesemir. I am done trying to achieve the impossible. I renounce you; I give up the pain you inflicted on me. It’s not my burden, it was never my burden to bear. I don’t have to carry it. I won’t carry it. Not anymore. I wash my hands of it, and you. The good you did I will carry with me. I owe you that much, but nothing more.

“We will be gone come first light,” he swallows hard. “We will not return here. This place is not a home, nor a refuge, and it never has been. Not for me.” He presses his shaking hands to the sides of his thighs, stilling them. Not sure if he’s going to piss himself or faint, he meets Vesemir’s gaze. “These are my people, your only quarrel with them is that they would defend me,” his words feel oddly formal, but also right. “You are not my father, nor my keeper. I will fight as I see fit and fail as I see fit.”

Ciri stands up behind him, freeing herself of the bench as Dandelion takes the hint to also rise.

“I have not shamed you. I have lived through every battle I have fought. I have faced every monster with a contract on its head I could find. I have lived as I was told a witcher should, and I have decided I found that life wanting. You will never see me nor mine again, I will not darken your doorstep, I will not bring further trouble upon your house. Goodbye, Vesemir.”

The old witcher sits in stunned silence as Geralt walks towards the hall, his back straight and proud.

Geralt turns once, “Coen, I am sorry I won’t have a chance to try your mettle, but I have nothing left to prove to anyone, anymore,” he grins faintly before sharing a look with first Eskel, and then Lambert. He will seek them again, on the road one day, when it’s safe. Should they all still be alive. Perhaps they will hate this way of living as much as he does. The constant fear, self-loathing, and despair… perhaps one day they can find a new meeting place and turn it into some kind of home. A refuge to go to when needed.

His little family follows him down the hallway and as soon as they hit the turn if Dandelion and Yennefer hadn’t caught him, he would have hit the floor. The hall spins and he isn’t sure if he’s going to vomit, faint, or die. His heart thunders loudly in his ears, sweat soaks him like an unwelcome blanket, and his legs wobble too much to hold him.

“Fuck,” he whispers faintly, feeling Dandelion struggle to pull him upright with Yennefer’s help. He tries to get his feet under him but the world continues to spin and tilt and he can’t manage to find his balance.

“Carry him,” Yennefer tells Dandelion, watching Geralt slip away from them. His eyes might be open but he’s far away. The bard heaves Geralt across his back and the witcher hardly reacts.

“Mamma,” Ciri says softly, eyes huge with fear, she looks like a little girl again.

“He’s alright,” she says softly. “It took a great deal of courage to do any of what he did, it was quite a shock to his system. He’s alright. Although if you thought he liked to whine and complain before…” she tries for a faint smile to cheer Ciri up. “Once we’re out on the road again he’ll feel more like himself, you’ll see.”

“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” her voice shakes.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong,” Yennefer tells her firmly, pulling her daughter into a tight hug. She waits patiently as Ciri cries herself out over the course of a few minutes. The girl has learned that there is rarely enough time to simply feel. “That has been near a century coming.”

When Dandelion dumps him onto the bed he starts, crying out and raising his hand to ward off a blow.

“Geralt!” Dandelion grabs his hand gently, lowering it. “It’s me, love.” He waits until he sees awareness fill back into Geralt’s eyes before he hugs him. “Where did you go?”

“The whipping post,” Geralt answers, unthinking. He moans softly in the bard’s embrace. “I have to fix this,” he croaks. He tries to pull away and feels Dandelion tighten his hold. “He’s going to hurt someone for this, it might as well be me, I’m the one who angered him. I’m the one who brought you all here.”

“No, he’s not going to hurt anyone. He’s old and irritable and out of his prime. He might still be capable of killing some monsters, but it’s not as if he’s staying in shape. He’s not better than you, or faster, no more so than the other witchers. They don’t have to stay and let him hurt them. Besides, you don’t beat men once they’ve stopped being your apprentices. Once someone achieves mastery they’re on their own.”

“He’s essentially the head of our Guild, he could whip or hang any of us if he pleased.”

“If, and only if, Geralt, you submitted to it. Breathe with me,” Dandelion tells him and is gratified Geralt does, inhaling slowly and steadily into his stomach through his nose and then out through his mouth. “You’re better than he is. You may not understand that yet, but I hope one day before you die, you see it. You were raised by people who did nothing but hurt you, and experiment on you, and lie to you. And yet, when you’re with Ciri, you’re everything a father should be. Or as close to. You might not know it, or realize it, or only see the mistakes, but that’s not all you are. She wouldn’t love you if you weren’t good to her, Geralt. She’s had a good grandmother and her mother and father loved her before they went down on the ship. She’s known love.”

“I was going to let him hurt her,” Geralt tells him, tears rolling over his scarred cheeks. “I didn’t even lift a hand-“ he chokes, shame burning through his insides and making him sick to his stomach.

“No, you wouldn’t have. Because if he’d hit Ciri you would have killed him,” Dandelion tells him quietly. “You couldn’t see your face, but I am telling you, if he’d hit Ciri you would have killed him.”

“I didn’t move, I didn’t do anything,” he protests, a sob ripping itself from his throat in spite of his desperate attempts to stop it.

“You pulled her into you, you were going to take that blow for her. I don’t know what your mind was doing when you did it, but your body reacted to shield her. Maybe not as thoroughly as you would have liked, but you did move to protect her, Geralt.”

When the bard starts to gently rock them back and forth Geralt wants to scream at him to stop. He shouldn’t be allowed any kind of comfort. If anything, it’s going to cause more problems later when Vesemir finds them like this and he will beat them both. Each time he tries to push away his attempts are weaker, but the sobs gain traction as his will weakens.

Yennefer pauses outside the door, desperate to comfort Geralt, but unwilling to let Ciri see him like that. It would devastate them both. She knows he feels like he failed Ciri, and knows that while Ciri would be the first to say he didn’t, it would hurt them both to be forced into having that discussion at all. It isn’t Ciri’s job to reassure him. She doesn’t feel safe letting Ciri out of her sight, or she would send the girl to do an errand and go comfort Geralt.

“Why aren’t we going in?” Ciri asks in a small voice.

“Because he needs a few moments to collect himself,” she says gently. “Here, we’ll go pack up my workroom,” that’s something they can do that will make the morning easier.

By the time they return Geralt is half asleep against Dandelion’s chest, tears still coating his cheeks. Yennefer quietly tells Ciri to start packing up the table, since she knows where everything goes. For once, the girl doesn’t protest.

Geralt stirs slightly when Yennefer slides in at his side and allows himself to be transferred from Dandelion to her. While some part of him protests at the indignity of being treated like a child, the rest of him knows he was never treated like this as a child and isn’t sure if that’s how children are treated.

Yennefer takes her time wiping the tears off his face gently, kissing his cheek when she’s done. He looks at her miserably, wishing she wasn’t being kind. He failed her, too, at that table.

“No, Geralt, never,” she tells him softly, carding her fingers through his hair. “You stood up, and you stopped it. And even if you hadn’t, you know I can take care of myself. I don’t need a protector,” she reminds him. She can tell Dandelion had tried and failed to reassure him, and she glances up as the bard moves around the room, helping Ciri pack their things.

Too exhausted to protest, or cry, he lets Yennefer sit with him without fighting it. Her smell envelops him and her body is cool against his. As always, without trying, she’s a comfort to him simply by being near him. When she untucks his shirt from his pants to slip her hand up over his back, skin on skin, he heaves a shuddering sigh. He feels too hot and too cold in turns, and her touch is grounding. Geralt presses a hesitant kiss against her neck, feeling unworthy of even being in the room with her.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” she tells him softly, and continues to run her hand up and down the planes of his back until he starts to still. “Don’t force it, Geralt,” she kisses his temple.

Unable to tell her he isn’t trying to, his throat is too tight. He simply shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Some part of him is still afraid he’s going to vomit, or that he’ll go groveling back to Vesemir. All his fine words rending the air for nothing.

“Lie down, Geralt,” Yennefer suggests, helping him ease himself down into the bed properly. She strips out of her dress down to her shift and settles in with him, allowing him to rest his head over her heart. His thoughts are bleak and she wishes she had somewhere they could go where she could refute each and every one as they came. Instead, she loosens the stays of his pants, and helps encourage him to ease out of them and get ready to sleep. She has a feeling his system is so badly shocked that in spite of himself he’ll sleep like a log.

The bard notices Geralt’s halfhearted attempts to undress without moving away from Yennefer and takes pity on him, unbuckling his boots and tugging them off before grabbing the cuffs of his breeches and tugging them off the rest of the way. He sets them over the back of the chair, and finds the thin linen pants Geralt prefers to sleep in. It takes some doing but he and Yennefer manage to get Geralt into them before he completely fades out on them.

“Is, is he alright?” Ciri asks hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“He’s fine,” Dandelion says dismissively. Then he looks at her pale face and huge eyes. “He will be fine,” he amends. “Right now it was just too much all at once. That’s all,” he promises.

“Too much of that?”

“Change, too much change too fast. I don’t know if he’s stood up to Vesemir like that in ages. You know our Geralt, though, he can pop off when he wants to, so I’m sure he’s done it before.”

“Did he give up everything here because of me?”

“What?”

“No!” Yennefer tells her fiercely, then freezes when Geralt shifts against her. She strokes his back gently and he calms, the tension easing back out of his body.

“No, Ciri,” Dandelion says. “No, he didn’t give up any of it because of you. He did it for himself, he needed to do that. He was right to do that. He has been badly hurt here, badly scarred. You didn’t cause him to do anything that didn’t need to be done.”

“This is his family,” Ciri protests.

“No,” Dandelion says sharply, far sharper than he intended to. Geralt stirs again and Yennefer shoots him an ugly glare. “No, Ciri,” he says in a softer voice. “We are his family. Us, maybe the others could be, if they wanted to be. If they choose him, instead of the past.”

“Vesemir was so kind when it was just us,” she whispers.

“And I very much assume Geralt was just as afraid of him then, too. Some of the cruelest people can be kind when things are going how they want. It’s when things go against them that they show their true colors,” the bard sighs. “I wasn’t here, Ciri. I just know that that kind of anger doesn’t come out of nowhere, people don’t just explode no matter what anyone would like you to think.” He reaches out and pulls her into a hug, suddenly feeling very old. “People feel so many things, and sometimes when they bottle them up too long, they overflow. The problem is people who weren’t watching the pot pretend like it’s a surprise they never saw coming. Others know if they had been paying attention or bothered to remove it from the flames it never would have boiled over.”

Once their things are packed, Dandelion strips out of his doublet and crawls into the bed behind Geralt, gratified when Geralt curls back into him with a soft sigh.

Ciri changes next, easing herself into the space between Yennefer and Geralt on the bed. Geralt shifts and resettles himself without waking as Yennefer allows Ciri to press into her and wraps an arm around them both.

Geralt wakes them all with nightmares that leave him gasping and choking, dragging himself off the bed to stand, trembling violently as he tries to master himself. Yennefer shudders unable to shake his dreams from her thoughts. She holds up a hand when Dandelion moves as if to offer comfort.

“Not yet,” she grits out, trying to remind her body the panic is Geralt’s, the dreams are his, and they won’t come to pass. “Don’t touch him yet.”

Dandelion pulls Ciri close to him, watching as Geralt looks around the room, eyes unseeing. The witcher’s chest heaves like bellows as he pants, hands held up in a defensive position as he tries to drag himself out of the panic.

Yennefer slides off the bed and he backs away and slams himself into the table only to leap away from it like a scalded cat. The enchantress runs a hand through her tangled curls, taking a few slow breaths before holding up her hands to show him she’s unarmed. “Geralt, it’s me, darling. Let me help you.”

“Yen?”

“Yes,” she breathes, moving closer to him in the dark. She reaches out to take his hands in hers, rather than crowd him. Slowly, she pulls his hands down to hip level, just holding them gently. “It didn’t happen. Ciri is fine, Dandelion is fine, I’m fine. To my knowledge Eskel, Lambert, and Coen are all unharmed, too.” She winces when his hands tighten on hers and when he notices he immediately tries to pull away. Yennefer doesn’t let him, and rather than fight her and risk hurting her again, he lets his arms go limp again.

“Yennefer?” Dandelion asks hesitantly.

“Don’t crowd,” she tells him. “We should just leave now. I thought the sleep would be good, but now I can see none of us will get any in these walls.”

“We can start dressing and packing,” Dandelion tells her, and nudges Ciri to start moving. Geralt had been practically comatose and in no shape to leave in the middle of the night. The bard isn’t so sure this is any better but getting him out of there might help him feel safe from retaliation. “Can someone light a candle? I can’t see in the dark,” he complains. Usually the sun is already partially up or Geralt helps him. Purple and red fire sparks to life near Yennefer and the bard sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

When Dandelion glances at Geralt he almost wishes the light was gone. Sweat soaks the other man and he doesn’t seem much calmer. Yennefer steps in close to him, wrapping her arms around his middle gently and murmuring to him, but it’s nothing Dandelion can hear. He forces himself to focus on cleaning up the room and changing, making sure Ciri is distracted, too.

“You’ll be alright, we’re just going to go. Let’s get you dressed, and I’ll need you to do up the back of my dress. Just breathe.” She walks him step by step through each and every task they need to complete so they can leave. He’s cooperative if unresponsive. “Don’t shut down on me, Geralt, don’t leave Ciri. Snap out of it. Grieve as much as you need to, but don’t you dare close us out.”

He gives himself a little shake, trying to pull himself together. “I haven’t been scared like this in years,” he whispers.

“You have, you’ve just never cared if you got hurt before. Now you finally have a reason to care if you get hurt, and that makes it all the worse.” She strokes his cheek gently. It’s almost a relief to know he cares enough about himself now to feel some distress he might get hurt.

“I can’t be weak when I have to protect Ciri,” tears slip over his cheeks. “I keep failing her, Yen. I keep letting her down every time. Getting hurt, she’s taking more care of me than I do her.”

“Your love protects her more than any show of strength ever would, Geralt. That’s what she needs from you. Even laid up in bed you protect her more than Vesemir ever protected you. You’re teaching her so much you don’t even know. Some things you might not want her to learn, I’m sure,” she smiles teasingly. “That was an interesting use of ‘rail’ you used last week.”

He snorts, trying for a smile he can’t quite manage.

“You’re dressed, I’m dressed. The room is cleared. Let’s go to our daughter and get out of here. I think I have a lead.”

“Thank you,” he croaks.

“I love you,” she tells him simply. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t, I love you too much,” he tells her, hugging her tightly.

“Good. Now let’s get out of this place. There’s too many ghosts here.” She lets the magical light in the room die out, knowing he can see fine. She can feel him set his shoulders and tip up his chin as he takes her hand and leads her out of the keep.

At the wall, Geralt sees Eskel waiting. He releases Yennefer’s hand to pull the other witcher into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Lambert and Coen would have come, but the more of us sneaking about… we’ll find you. This isn’t our goodbye, Geralt. Not on your life.”

Geralt takes a soft breath. “I love you.” It gets easier to say every time. He can’t believe he almost choked on the words a few years back. “We’ll keep going until everyone who wants to hurt Ciri is dead.”

“Skellen, Bonhart, who else Geralt?”

“Rience.”

“If I find word of them, I will find you. You were my best friend growing up,” Eskel tells him tightly. “Tell your witch to find me, if you need another sword. I’ll come if I can.” He presses their foreheads together for a brief moment, hand clasping the back of Geralt’s neck. The white-haired witcher returns the gesture, and sighs when Eskel’s hand drops.

“I will,” Geralt promises, knowing that’s as close as Eskel can come to saying, ‘I love you, too.’ Eskel hasn’t had what he’s had. But he would like to share it, if he can, one day. Perhaps he and Yen can still build that cottage, even if she can’t stay there, even if they can’t flesh out the dream, Ciri needs somewhere safe to grow up, and he is so sick of wandering lost.

They make camp further down the mountains, out of the shadow of the keep. Geralt is glad when they all crush themselves into one tent together, pressing him in tight and close. Dandelion at his back, Ciri safe against his chest, and Yennefer behind her, keeping her safe.

“We should just get a bigger tent,” Dandelion suggests and Yennefer snorts.

“Perhaps sometimes Ciri and I would like a little privacy,” she says dryly, stroking Geralt’s cheek so he know there’s no hidden insult in the words.

He gives her a crooked smile to show he understands. “Perhaps what we should do is get a third tent,” his eyes twinkle. “Then when Dandelion has ridiculous ideas we can all escape them together and leave him in this one.”

The bard lightly thumps Geralt’s shoulder. “You are so lucky I love you and know you well enough to know when you’re teasing.”

“Am I?” Geralt twists to look over his shoulder at the bard. Ciri giggles as Dandelion’s exaggerated expression and even Yennefer smiles.

“If I felt like pitching up the other tent I’d leave you right now,” the bard informs him. “But the mountains are cold, and eventually once you warm up you’ll radiate heat. That’s why I’m staying, after an insult like that,” Dandelion fakes indignation.

“As if you’d pitch much of a tent alone,” Yennefer tells him with a smirk.

“I hate all of you,” Dandelion informs them loftily as Ciri continues to giggle after a grimace at her mother. She understood the innuendo without issue. “See if I don’t.”

“Would a kiss change your mind?” Geralt asks him softly, and Dandelion props himself up on his elbow to lean over Geralt and kiss him gently on the lips.

“Must you both always be disgusting together?” Ciri demands, fake retching. She rolls away from them, tucking her head under Yennefer’s chin.

Dandelion drops back to his bedroll, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s middle. The witcher sighs heavily, willing his exhausted body into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey fam, fun fact I didn't sleep last night, and I "get" to travel tomorrow. So I'm posting a day early for y'all. If you can't think of anything worth saying about the fic maybe wish me luck b/c the airline keeps fucking with my flight. 
> 
> Just like uh, I do not... recommend you get bit by a tick? I'm still not so sure I didn't have food poisoning vs the little fucker made me sick. And I still cannot like, shake the feeling that even tho I pulled it out I somehow didn't get it and it is making me weird as fuck. So feel free to distract me from suffering. 
> 
> (if there's anything worth saying about the fic? I don't know.)


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the comments and kudos. I almost forgot to edit and upload. Thanks as always to ruusverd, I made cookies today and wish I could share them in thanks.   
> Here endeth part 1. Hope you guys enjoy.

While not all of their time at the keep had been productive, Yennefer thought she might have at least had a direction for them to go in on their search for answers. It would be another long, exhausting ride, but that would mean they should be safe. The smaller the population, the less chance of running into Nilfgaard. While the army slowly ate away at the border all the way from the coast of Cintra to the mountains of Lyria, the small family hoped being in the north, in Kaedwen would keep them far enough away from getting caught up into the middle of it. Unfortunately, news of Rience would lead them further south, back into Aedirn.

Geralt had recovered completely from the aftereffects of the curse, and from his own shock at standing up to Vesemir. He and Ciri resumed their training, and overall he had seemed better. Happier, even.

They’re riding fairly slowly when suddenly Geralt turns, drawing up the reins. Roach protests by tossing her head and he shouts hoarsely. Yennefer looks back, and they meet eyes for just long enough. She leans over hard, making her horse whinny, and takes Ciri’s reins, spurring her own horse into a gallop and forcing Kelpie to follow. Geralt kicks Roach into enough of a gallop to catch up to Dandelion and Pegasus. The fat little horse doesn’t care much that there’s a large group of men in black winged armor cresting the hill behind them. Geralt leans over in his saddle, and slaps the grey hard across the withers, and Pegasus leaps into a gallop, deciding he’d rather run with the other horses up ahead. 

Ciri is screaming at Yennefer who steadfastly ignores her, urging her own horse on faster. Kelpie refuses to mind her mistress now, interested only in running for the sake of outrunning the horse at her side. Pegasus labors to catch up, Dandelion shouting from his back and swearing for all the good it’s doing. There’s not a whole army behind them by any means, but more than enough to overwhelm their party. 

Yennefer looks back one more time and sees Geralt make a decision. She tries not to scream, but he’s right. They’re close to the edge of another copse; they could conceivably get away if someone were to slow them. Too many men for one person, if she were to use magic…. Then she sees Geralt look at her and shake his head. He gives her a weak smile and turns his horse, drinking down one of those horrible witcher elixirs as he does, and she sees his skin lose even more color and knows if he were to turn back his amber eyes would be black. 

A small twist of her fingers, and a few words of Elder, and she knows her voice will carry. “I will get them out of here. And then I will come for you,” she promises him. Then she kicks her horse again, forcing the poor thing to go even faster. She ignores Ciri’s screams and when the girl makes as if she might jump off her horse, Yennefer rides in closer and loops part of the rein around her wrist, “Don’t you dare!” she screams. 

“Geralt is back there!” the girl shrieks. 

“And that is why you cannot stop riding!” 

Geralt pats Roach’s neck, feeling her dance under him. She’s ready. She’s been trained to fight. Yennefer had trained her, or had her trained. She’s one of the best horses he’s ever had the pleasure of owning. Which is why he has no intention of letting her join him in the fight. He won’t see her killed for no good reason. Even if having her would keep him alive a bit longer. With a sharp shout, as soon as the men are in range, he raises his hand in the sign of Aard, blasting several of them back. Just falling wrong from a horse in full armor can be enough to kill. He doubts they’ll shoot him with arrows, then he can’t tell them where Ciri is. There’s nothing to seal for Quen to help him much, and he slides out of Roach’s saddle, turning her as they approach, and slaps her with the flat of his sword. She bolts, and he hopes she’ll find Yennefer. He hopes she won’t get shot down, and he also hopes she won’t break a leg or throw a shoe. 

Then he has no more time to think, and it takes all he has to focus on the circle of men he’s left alive. There’s far less, but some are getting up. 

“Take him alive! That’s him that’s the Witcher!” 

“Take him alive boys, don’t kill him! The captain wants him!” 

He grins. He won’t let them take him alive, or if they somehow manage, very few of them will be alive to explain how they managed. 

“We have to go back!” Ciri screams, and Yennefer grabs her hard by the arm. “Let go of me! They’ll kill Geralt!” 

“They won’t! If you’ll stop being a twit I can go back for him!” 

“Not alone! I won’t lose you both again!” 

“I can portal him out and find you later!” Yennefer hisses. “The more you drag this out, the less chance he has! We will distract them and Dandelion will… get you to somewhere you’ll be safe. Brokilon, perhaps.” 

The bard nods, they’ve hidden themselves, and Yennefer had used a small kind of magic to hide their trail. Or so she hopes. She doesn’t want them being tracked because she’s using magic. And portals can definitely be tracked and followed. 

“I can’t lose you both!” Ciri begs, tears running down her cheeks, her face flushed with anger. 

“And you won’t, now be silent, and do whatever he says. Bard, try not to get my daughter killed.” 

“If I do, I promise you I’ll die first.” 

“Good. Don’t let her follow me.” 

Dandelion takes Ciri’s hand, and she takes a swing at him. Thankfully, years of practicing dodging angry ex-lovers’ slaps gives him enough practice to catch her other wrist. “None of that now,” he tells her. When he looks up Yennefer is gone, and so is her horse. “You think I wouldn’t let you go if I thought it would help? They want you, Cirilla. They want the Lion Cub of Cintra. And they want the entire continent to run with blood. You cannot be caught, because somehow, you are part of that plan. If Geralt dies,” his voice breaks. “If he dies, as long as they don’t get you, then it was worth losing him.” 

“I hate you.” 

“You don’t. But you can say it as often as you want if it makes you feel better right now,” he tells her, unable to wipe tears off his cheeks because he’s holding onto her arms so she can’t hit him. 

Geralt grins when blood sprays across his face. He’d been disarmed for a matter of seconds, and then an idiot mounted on a very disruptive stallion thought they could get a blade in close. He’d taken them off their mount and taken their sword. Then used it to behead them before taking out several of their fellows and cutting the saddle from the warhorse. If perhaps he’d also cut into the horse a bit -just to make it angry- well perhaps it wasn’t an accident. The beast had gone insane, kicking and whirling around and biting out at anyone near it. Except the person who actually deserved it. But the minute he’d slashed it, he’d whirled away, hacking a man’s leg off before they could kick him. 

He knows not to get too cocky, there’s too many of them, but he’s under the influence of the elixirs. He can’t hardly feel pain, and he certainly can’t feel exhaustion. There’s a certain cleanness to killing like this, he feels. His life, or theirs. Their life or Ciri’s. No questions, no moral dilemmas. A few men had chosen to run away after Geralt had hacked down the first ten men or so. Most had stayed. Brave, but stupid. He thinks there’d been around forty in total, when they had started. Aard had accounted for some, and had continued to take a few, here and there with a bit of help from Igni. He’s fairly sure he can kill or maim half of them, but after that, hopefully he’ll have done enough damage they’ll have to kill him. Stop holding back. 

When a few circle him, he bares his teeth in a challenge, and raises his free hand, beckoning invitingly for them to attack. He twirls his sword in a moulinet before attacking. One man dies before he even knows what’s happened, and Geralt flows neatly away from the other, pirouetting neatly and stabbing another in the gut. He reverses his grip on the hilt to parry another and laughs when he kills that man, too. 

Distracted, he doesn’t hear the whistle of the rock. It strikes him hard in the skull and he drops to the muck.

Yennefer screams in rage by the time she reaches the scene. There’s no one there. They’d left some body parts, and a few dead horses, but nothing else. Geralt isn’t there. Surely if they’d killed him they would have left his body. But it’s Nilfgaard. Perhaps they would prefer to display it. Her horse dances under her in distress, and she rides the animal over to a tree where she knots the reins over a branch before dismounting. 

She’s glad all the body parts she’s finding are far too dark and in the wrong kind of armor to be Geralt’s. If nothing else he killed enough people and horses to turn the dirt around him to mud. She trips slightly on something and pulls it up carefully. His sword. The plain steel one, his silver one is nowhere to be seen. Then again neither is Roach. She wouldn’t have abandoned him without him forcing her to. And her corpse isn’t among the mess. So they captured them both, or perhaps he somehow got away on her back.

She walks around the mess carefully, trying to get an idea of what happened. Then she sees something that makes her heart stop. They dragged something out and away, and then there’s nothing. No trace of hoofprints, nothing. A portal. They had some kind of mage, or one came for them. She screams again, magic burning inside her, but there’s nothing to do with it. No one to kill, they’re all just gone. They took him alive. They took him alive, which means nothing good for him. She knows he won’t give Ciri up. But Vilgefortz has means of getting into someone’s head…. if he’s there, if he’s part of this, Geralt might not have a choice or even know what he’s done. He’s not a natural user of magic, it’s the potions mostly. 

She screams one last time, and then takes a few breaths, realizing she’s been panting. Fine then, she holds out her hands, chanting as she tries to track the portal. She’s missing so many supplies, she doesn’t have all that she needs to do this. 

When Geralt regains consciousness he’s unsurprised to find he’s been lashed to a saddle. It’s most unpleasant, and he does his best to test the bindings without indicating he’s awake. Looks like they’ve tied him around the belly, and if he gets on their nerves they can just slide him under the horse, instead of on top. The saddle digs into his belly uncomfortably, and he breathes deeply. There’s stone, and buildings. They aren’t anywhere near where they’d started. A portal, then. Magic. Hopefully they hadn’t been able to track the others. He doesn’t recognize the sounds or smells around him, but he does notice he’s in quite a bit of pain. He has no idea how much of that comes from before they’d tied him up. It’s entirely possible once he was knocked unconscious that they’d beaten him. Men tend to do that when they’re upset. Take advantage of helpless people. Not that he’d been helpless before. 

His head aches, and he assumes something must have hit him. No one had gotten in past his guard, so a good throw with a rock perhaps, but not an arrow or he’d be dead. He smells blood, offal, and death, so they’ve taken their fallen with them. Or he’s in much worse shape than he’d supposed, but since he can tell he hasn’t shit himself, it’s definitely dead bodies. A few deep careful breaths, he can’t tell more. Not yet. Either way he needs to make sure he doesn’t give anything away. _If you’re ever captured, ever tortured, remember: think about what you will say, not what you won’t. Repeat what you will say over and over, until that’s the only truth there is._

What had he told those lordlings at Pavetta’s betrothal feast? That he wished them a shitless death? He’d been there because of Dandelion. Someone he cannot give up to these monsters. What will he say? He knows of the bard. He’s heard of the bard. He’s been near the bard, he isn’t the bard’s friend, he doesn’t know him. And then he will forget him entirely. Just like he will start packing away his memories of Yennefer. Being at that god-awful party with the other enchantresses, that has to go. Locked away. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t love anyone. Cirilla died. He went to get her, and she died in the destruction of Cintra. His child of surprise died, and so he left. He’s been on his own. 

Rumors of his time at Aretuza with Yennefer are greatly exaggerated. He doesn’t know her. He knows of her, of course. But he’s never even met the princess. The dead princess, so it’s impossible now. He didn’t have travelling companions. Witchers travel alone. Those were mirages, or the platoon -what’s left of it, is lying to save face. 

Roach, when sent away, had followed the scent of the other horses. Ciri had caught her and hidden her with the other two and had sobbed horribly for what felt like hours. Dandelion had been entirely unable to reassure her it meant nothing. 

“Geralt probably didn’t want her in the thick of things, that’s all.” 

“She wouldn’t leave him! She’s trained to fight! She’s not supposed to leave him!” She had devolved into another fit of sorts, screaming and crying and raging. Dandelion had desperately hoped whatever sort of illusion or protections Yennefer had cast included sound. Otherwise if there’s any scouts, well. There’s no hope. He glances up when he hears another horse, half afraid it’s some Nilfgaardian scout, come to kill him and take Ciri. It’s Yennefer and he’s absolutely terrified of her when he sees her face. Recoiling in shock, he sits down hard. 

“Where is he?” Ciri asks frantically. “Why did you come back alone? Why isn’t he with you?!” 

“They’re all gone.” 

“What? What the fuck does that mean?!” 

“They’re gone! They took him and they’re gone!” 

“Is he even alive?!” the girl shrieks. “If he’s dead this is all your fault! I’ll never forgive you!” 

“What makes you think I could forgive myself?!” Yennefer shouts back, her voice hoarse from screaming. 

“Enough! That is bloody well -no don’t you start up again- that is enough dammit! Screaming won’t get Geralt back! So shut the fuck up and let’s figure out a plan!” Dandelion roars, years of training making his voice soar above theirs. Both of them stare for a minute and Yennefer nods once, in agreement. 

Geralt grunts when they untie his hands and he falls off the horse. His arms are entirely numb, along with his legs. “Fuck,” he mutters tersely. It is what it is, he supposes. He grunts once, when a man hauls him up by the wrists, lashing him to a wide post. While he has some concerns for his skin, he’s more concerned about getting his legs working again. He flexes the muscles in his body, desperately checking everything works. It does, but he feels deeply wrong. The headache is getting to him, and when he finally gets his feet under himself and stands, he almost pukes. They haven’t taken his clothes, and he doesn’t see any signs of this being a whipping post, so perhaps it’s just a place they normally tie up their horses. Perhaps. He doesn’t feel the odds are especially good. “Can I at least ask what this is all about?” he calls, attempting a cheerful tone. He won’t give them away because he won’t remember them. Best to start playing stupid now, get into the habit before he can slip up and get his family killed. 

When footsteps approach, he turns his head, trying to get a better view of something other than a block of wood. A fist connects just under his ribs and he groans slightly. 

“So, that’s a no, I take it?” he asks as lightly as he can. “I really don’t know why I’m here. Your lot attacked me, I’m a simple witcher, I go and kill monsters. Not men. Not unless provoked. I was on my way to look for a job posting,” another blow lands and forces the air from his lungs, effectively cutting off the rest of his explanation. With a short wheeze, he shakes his head a bit, if that’s how it’s going to be then. At least he doesn’t seem too badly injured from the fight earlier. They had been quite serious about taking him alive. There’s some cuts to his arms and body, he knows, he can feel them now. Some will be quite painful for quite a while, but nothing deadly. “Damn.” 

He needs them to kill him quickly, since he’d rather not undergo copious amounts of torture. Not to mention the less time he’s alive the less chance he has of betraying anyone. When the man steps back in to hit him again, Geralt lashes out hard with his leg, kicking high. He hears a satisfying snap and gurgling and is pretty sure he hit the neck like he wanted. If not, he’s still confident the man who was hitting him wouldn’t be getting up and doing it again any time soon. If ever again. 

He cocks his head to the side trying to get a better view, but the way his arms are bound he can’t turn much. He can see men rushing in, though, and hear quite a bit of shouting. Looks like the man he’d kicked would not be getting up. Pleased with himself, when he sees some men in his peripheral vision, he lashes out again. They’re slightly better prepared but he still breaks one man’s femur. Something strikes him in the head again and he slumps, dangling by his wrists. 

“How do we track him?” Dandelion asks tensely. “They portalled away, and you’re trying not to use magic to draw people to Ciri, so how do we track him?” 

“I’m working on it, bard! I will figure it out. They won’t keep him long.” 

“We have to find him, Yennefer, Lilit knows what they’re doing to him, right now.” 

“I know!” she snaps. “You think I’m not going through all the same thoughts you are? You think I’m not lying awake at night wondering how many pieces he’ll be in when we get to him!?” 

“So, Witcher. We’ve found out that white scorpion venom will slow you down. Won’t kill you, sadly. But it’ll stop you for a bit at a time.” 

Geralt looks around as best he can. At least they’re only planning on beating him, it looks like. No chair. He hates when they strap you down to a chair, then you know something vile is coming. Hopefully they’ll keep using the venom. It hurts to fuck, but he’s immune partly, and he’ll build up a tolerance if they keep it up. And it wears off much quicker than they think. 

“Can’t keep killing us if you can’t twitch a muscle, can you?” one guard smiles wickedly. 

And he can’t see them beating him, while the venom works its way through his system. He can feel it, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Yet. So he endures. And the minute he feels the venom start to fade, he starts to bide his time. Last time, the first time, it had taken a good day for it to wear off. He can’t afford to waste time like that. Or risk that they’ll double the dose. 

So he endures. And when he knows it’s been long enough, he lashes out, snapping the rope holding his arm, and he strikes as hard as he can. He feels bone crunch, and he snaps his other arm free and he gets ahold of one of the men beating him. And he squeezes that man to death before they can beat him into unconsciousness. Two more down. And perhaps they’ll beat him to death and the little blonde girl will be safe. 

“I might have a lead, finally.” 

“Good, let’s go.” 

“I’m not taking you with me, don’t be daft.”

“You need all the help you can get!” 

“I won’t risk you getting killed or taken, too!” 

“Dammit Yennefer!” 

“I won’t break him out alone, I’m just going to see if he’s even there!” 

“It’s been over a week! And we’ve found fuck all, and now you want to go alone, and risk never coming back, and leaving us with nothing?!” 

“Fine, but one word, and I will spell your mouth shut.” 

“Agreed, now let’s go!” 

“Hey, Witcher, how’d you like this? Scum!” 

Something rips out some of his hair, he thinks, trying to pull his head back. He can hardly see. His eyes are so swollen shut. He thinks his nose might be broken, if it is, they’ll just keep pummeling him anyway. He can’t break free or stop what’s happening. Once the scorpion venom stopped working on him entirely they’d found that rope wouldn’t hold him well either. Sometimes he could break free. He’d broken his own thumb to prove that point and had killed another guard. Four down, at his current total. 

“Yennefer, it’s been over two weeks.” 

“I know.” 

“Another false lead?” 

“I know.” 

“I don’t know how to keep hope, what if he’s dead?”

“Then we find the pieces, and we give him a proper burial, and we kill everyone who had a hand in hurting him.” 

“Then let’s _find_ him.” 

“I’m doing my best.” 

He can’t feel anything from the waist down. Vaguely, he wonders if he’s been paralyzed. Did they break his back? At least he can’t feel what they’re doing to him anymore half the time. He’d rather they just beat him, then do some of what they’ve been doing. Or the burning. He’d gotten out, once, he thinks. One time he even made it outside, he thinks. They cut his forehead, or split his eyebrow, or something and the blood ran into his eyes. Then when they were swollen shut, it dried, and so now his eyes are mostly sealed. He can’t see. He can hardly hear. All he can smell is blood. When he can smell. It hurts to breathe. 

“We can’t kill him, he hasn’t told us where the princess is.” 

“Fuck him, he’s killed six of my men! We should quarter him up today!” 

“You’re hurting him too much for him to even stay conscious.” 

“Well if we don’t he fuckin’ kills us!” 

“And yet, I can’t hear him talking!” 

“Well he can’t. Petyr was chokin’ him earlier when…Well. He fights less if he can’t breathe.” 

“And so you bruised his bloody throat?” 

“Well we bruised a lo’ more than tha’!” 

“None of you are to touch him, not for the rest of the week, at the very least. I’ll question him myself. And if I find out you’ve done a damn thing to him when I’m not watchin’, I will tie you up and leave you in a cell with him. And he won’t be tied at all. Do you understand?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“And if I find out you’re soiling his food and water, or withholding it, I’ll kill you myself on that same rack you have him on. You can rip out his tongue once he talks, for all I care, but until then he has to live. And if you kill him or maim him so bad he can’t speak, I’ll do the same to you. And then send you in a box to the emperor to explain how you failed him.” 

“Yessir.” 

“That goes for all of you, standing here. Get him down, dump him in his cell. D’you hear me?” 

“Yessir.” 

They don’t do it nicely, and despite the fact he’s only seen black and red for weeks, he sees stars when they free him from the chains and his skull cracks against the ground. He feels like he can’t move, and they drag him down the hall and toss him into the cell. He feels liquid, and isn’t sure if it’s blood, or the water he should be getting. It’s probably neither, but he can’t smell or see. And that seems to be preferable. Can’t anticipate pain and make it worse if he has no idea what’s coming. 

At least he won’t need to use a chamber pot, so the lack of one, or being able to find one, won’t bother him much. He hasn’t had water in so long he’s not sure how he’s still alive. 

“Yennefer, will we find him?” 

“Of course we will. Of course we will.” 

“Do you think he’s even still alive?” 

“He is, my Strong One. Be brave a bit longer.” 

“What condition do you think he’ll be in, when we find him?” 

“He’ll be alright, and we’ll put him back together. And hold him. And we’ll love him, and all will be well.” 

“What if he isn’t?” 

“We’ll put him back to rights. He’ll be alright.” 

“And if he’s blinded? Or missing his hands?” 

“Then we will take care of him, Ciri. And we’ll find a way to restore his sight, and his hands. And if we can’t, we will keep him warm and safe and as happy as he can be, given the circumstances. He will never have to suffer or want for anything again.” 

“He won’t be happy like that, Yen, and witchers live forever. Until they’re killed.” 

“There are machines, and things, we can find ways to get him hands. And he doesn’t much need his sight the way normal humans do.” 

“He won’t be the same, Yen.” 

“Not at first, no. And no matter what, he’ll change some. Our job is to tell him it doesn’t matter.” 

“It does.”

“No, it doesn’t. What matters is having him with us.” 

“Where is the girl?” 

“What girl?” he asks, blood and spit leaking over his chin. He can’t close his mouth his lips are so swollen. 

“You know what girl! The princess! The lion cub of Cintra!” 

He thinks they’re punctuating each word with some kind of strike, but he hardly feels it anymore. Pain is all he can feel, all over. Every part of him hurts, and he starts to wonder why he keeps trying to live. There’s no one coming for him, no one who cares, he’s a witcher. 

“Tells us about the enchantress then! The bitch from Vengerberg!” 

“I don’t know anyone in Vengerberg,” he slurs, doing his best to speak clearly. As if that would help. They don’t care, they just want to hurt him. 

“Yennefer, we have it.” 

“What?” 

“I have it on good word, from a bard who performed, they saw a man with a white hair bracelet.” 

“What?” 

“I know where he is. Or where he was.” 

“Where’s that man? And how do you know it wasn’t horse or something else?” 

“My friend asked. She asked, saying it reminded her of snow, or milk. And she had last seen hair like that on a stolen horse.” 

“And I suppose he said it wasn’t horse.” 

“No.” 

“Dandelion.” 

“He took her down, to show her. I suppose he thought it might arouse her. Thankfully she kept it together long enough not to give herself away or let him touch her. She left. And then passed word.” 

“All the magic in the world, and bards are what finds him.” 

“He’s a mess, Yen, but she says it looked like he was whole. Other than his skin. She wasn’t sure how much was missing, there was so much blood.” 

“Melitele’s tits.” 

“I know. We have to go now.” 

“We need a plan.” 

“We can figure it out on the way, can’t we?” 

“I suppose. Get Ciri.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is almost completely finished, I think, at around another 14 or so chapters. I am going to send off chunks for beta and hopefully cut down what already exists down some. God knows.   
> I dunno. I am having mental doubts and struggles about how good this fic is or isn't, and I appreciate those of you who have said kind things about it in the past. <3 Trying to decide if it's worth finishing part 2 and moving on to part 3 or not. Just having a lot of doubts. 
> 
> >< either way, here we go, it's done. I also have whumpweek completely up if you were interested in that, and I have some other witcher fics floating around if you need a fix. It'll probably be a week or two before I start posting part 2 if I do. Just... trying to get up the courage to send it for edits because I'm sure it's awful. <3   
> thanks for reading.


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